


Part Of My Melody

by hayesgeneration



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Christmas fic, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Musicians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-20 03:04:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/580595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hayesgeneration/pseuds/hayesgeneration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is a professional classical musician who has found himself lost without a muse, without goal and without even a hint of spark. He's almost settled nearly contently (if not slightly unwillingly) on having to live his life as a recluse, when his sister finally grows tired of his antics, giving him a Christmas ultimatum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _"Oh, what if Derek was a renowned classical musician, and he falls for this crazy street musician?"_ is what [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com) asked me on a night not too long ago. What if, indeed! This isn't our first time spindling together things, but this time, there's something new; she's going to do a piece of art for every chapter I write, 4 chapters that will be posted each Advent Sunday until Christmas.  
>  Happy December, everyone, let's get this show on the road!
> 
> Music selections used will always be found in the end notes!

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilhayden/8239109126/)

art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com/)

 

It’s been more than a year since “The Event” (yes, capital E, everyone agreed, more or less reluctantly, after a while). It’s been almost a year since the unfolding of the results following said event. It’s been more than ten months since he lost the spark and, from one day to another, pulled himself away from the public eye, deftly ignoring invitations, offers and requests, no matter the size. And it only took six individual declines for family get-togethers to push Laura over the edge. A rant containing wordings like “enough is enough” and “I swear, Derek, I’ve been the most understanding person out of everyone you know,” as well as “get your shit together, baby bro, or I kid you not, I won’t be asking anymore,” combined with the very real threat of an actual family intervention, Christmas or not, was what it took to make Derek Hale grab his cello case, pull on his jacket, and finally venture outside of his apartment.

Derek steps out into the open, the air crisp and nipping at his cheeks. It’s ridiculously cold, but he supposes that December ought to be introduced to New York accordingly. The case bumps rhythmically against his back as he sets a quick pace towards Union Square. It’s a good walk and probably not the closest destination out of a shitload of others he could have probably picked, but it’s the most familiar. He takes the route that’ll be quickest around midday, weaving through the mass of residents and tourists, side-stepping around an elderly couple reading a map, and buys a paper cup of coffee at a small place a few minutes from the station from a chipper, tan barista of a dude who peers curiously at the cello case when Derek takes his coffee and exits the shop.

Pigeons whirl up behind the station entrance as Derek trots down the steps, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. He might have to switch to something warmer soon, whether he wants to or not. It’s not like he doesn’t have a nice, proper jacket; Laura bought it for him as far back as October, insisting that it was better doing that kind of shopping sooner rather than later.

Derek’s feeling a chill, but he’s not sure it’s the cold. The cello feels heavier on his back than when he left home, when he slowly ducks out of the arm straps and sets the case down. It’s a good spot; more or less clean tile on both floor and wall, and Derek can feel rather than hear the rumble of trains on the tracks below, so it’s not too loud to drown out the sound his instrument is capable of producing without bothering passer-bys.

It’s been forever since he played like this, and that wasn’t in New York. Derek feels his face drain just slightly as he faces the wall. He’s not the kid from a small-town anymore, it’s not that. He’s not scared of the pressure, or the people who will be looking; he’s not uncomfortable or nervous that he’s not good enough, because he is. Grandeur isn’t his thing, but he knows he’s good.

It’s the playing. It’s getting back in the game. And with good reason; Derek almost feels like he’s starting over. He’d used to play outside for spare change and for fun with some of the other students at the academy back home, at school festivals, at Christmas when town hall needed someone to perk up people from the stress of winter sales. Derek liked that. But that was a long time ago.

He’s not sure if he likes being back to that point in his life.

_“It’s your own damn fault, Derek,”_ Laura had said. Derek begrudgingly knows that she’s somewhat right. If you don’t practise, you falter.

Derek takes a breath, lets his shoulders come down from where they’ve been almost squishing his ears, and unclasps the case. People are already casting him glances as they hurry to their trains. He can do this. It’s getting back on the horse, back in the water, finding his footing, getting started, it’s—

“Hey!”

It’s already shrivelling up. Derek turns, instinctively pushing back the body of the cello flush against the lining inside the case. A tall boy is staring at him like he had been about to whip out his dick in public. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him. The kid, probably in his twenties, is sporting the ugliest knitted hat Derek has ever seen, bright blue and white in what should probably have been a nice pattern, and he has a long, rectangular bag slung over his shoulder.

“Dude. Do you mind? I have clientele here,” the guy huffs as he sets the bag down right in front of Derek, like he’s ready for a confrontation, but only succeeds in knocking over the remains of Derek’s coffee standing on the floor.

“Oh for god’s sake!” he blurts as Derek just manages to pull his shoe out of harm’s way, and the guy immediately bends down and snatches the cup back into standing position, one of his fingerless gloves happily drinking up the coffee he manages to plant his hand in. Derek can’t begin to explain how little of this situation is any making sense to him. The guy fusses over the cup as he tries to mop up some of the mess with a crumpled paper napkin from his pocket.

  _Clientele._ Derek frowns.

“You’re a hooker?” The guy’s head snaps up, his mouth falling open in what’s very clearly total offense. Well.

“Uh, _no._ Do you actually see the keyboard?” he retorts with an exaggerated snort, the _duh_ heavily implied, straightening up and pulling off his soaked gloves. He nods down at the bag leaning against the wall.

“Well, I don’t, actually,” Derek says. The guy rolls his eyes.

“Fine, so it’s in the bag. But it’s very definitely there. The keyboard, not the bag.” He reaches over to unzip the corner of the bag and pulls it down for show, and hey, what do you know, keyboard. Derek purses his lips.

“And?” he asks, presenting the guy with what is probably arrogance, but what does he care. Manners obviously isn’t in high regard today. The guy makes an incredulous, annoyed and at the same time kind of sweet face that Derek recognises from younger cousins. Mister _Clientele_ pinches the bridge of his nose as Derek crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“Okay, see, this is my spot. Sorta. Has been for a few months at least. And it was kind of my plan for today to be playing and this is the best time to do it in, sooo,” he trails off. Derek’s definitely looking forward to the end of that sentence.

“So could I fuck off?” Derek suggests. The guy lights up like a Christmas tree. A shameless, tacky Christmas tree.

“Would you?” he winces “Or, you know, that was rude, but would you mind maybe just finding somewhere else? You’re probably good and all, man, I dig cellos, but I’m pretty happy with this spot.” So not completely shameless, then. Derek looks at him until he can feel the guy getting uncomfortable, and then he slowly nods and shuts the cello case.

“Sure.”

“Awesome! Stiles’ Special Selection for tonight will be dedicated to you, my man, promise.” Derek snorts.

“Lovely.” He hikes up the case and starts for the stairs as the guy calls out for him.

“Sorry about the coffee!” Derek doesn’t turn, but he does wave back at him.

 

 ---

 

“No, it’s perfect. Just fine. Yes. Yes. Good, thank you.” Derek hangs up the phone and places it on his kitchen table, screen down. He’s never actually met the male half of Martin & Whittemore, but he’s a bit of a jackass on the phone. Maybe that’s why it’s always Lydia Martin who does the house calls with her colour swatches and sharp attention to detail. Derek swipes a finger over the leather of the arm chair. It still smells new. He’s gotten most of his furniture from Martin & Whittemore, because a) the place, when he sometimes actually visits it, is in fact fairly close within his vicinity of distance-Derek-bothers-to-venture-away-from-home and b) miss Martin is _very_ good at her job. She isn’t pushy and accepts Derek minimalistic, gray-scale taste, which is nice (and unlike his mother who keeps insisting that he should splash some colour on here and there, or well, everywhere). In short, Lydia Martin is professional, and she does a brilliant job of regularly fuelling Derek’s secret passion for interior design. His apartment isn’t packed, at all actually, but he’s got what he needs, and he wants it to be right when he has to live there. Laura never really got that.

Derek places the chair next to the couch. The loft is bright this time of day, light pouring in through the huge windows along the living room and the open kitchen space. Light is another thing Derek appreciates. It doesn’t have to be the big things, he thinks, as he slumps into the new chair, beer bottle in hand. The leather creaks under his weight, and Derek wiggles in his seat to get comfortable. He glances at the cello still standing by the door leading out to the lift in the hallway. He takes a swig from the bottle.

It’s not that he _wanted_ to stop playing. He still does, one doesn’t simply stop playing after twentysomething years of having the instrument under your hands every day, but it’s not the same anymore. He can’t get the strings to work like he wants them to. Not like he used to. They don’t sing to him anymore. The tones come out flat, and if they’re not flat, they’re grating. He doesn’t get excited about it anymore, and that’s probably what gets to him the most. Derek tears his eyes away from the neglected instrument, sets the bottle down and climbs up the ladder to the bed loft protruding over the dining table. Laura keeps referring to it as his “tree house”; Derek thinks it’s because she wasn’t allowed in his when they were kids.

Derek should probably use his bedroom more. It’s nice, and it’s, well, his bedroom, and he usually means to go back down, but most nights he ends up passing out on the guest bed “upstairs”, where he keeps the best books in shelves along the two walls his version of a guest room actually has. He usually nods off, reading glasses still on, and ends up just slipping under the covers on the mattress skilfully mounted on two pallets side-by-side. Another one of Lydia’s ideas Derek’s been very fond of. Derek likes that it’s not closed off; he likes having the open space view over the rest of the apartment, likes the light from outside. His bedroom isn’t small, but it’s closed, it’s tight; it brings back memories.

Tonight, Derek finishes A Game of Thrones, slips off his glasses and his shirt and sleeps on top of the covers in his jeans. It’s one of those nights.

 

 ---

 

Maybe it’s a special sibling sort of psychic ability that has Laura texting him the next morning. On a Monday. Which means she’s at work when she texts him. Which means she’s either worried about him or about to tell him off. It turns out to be a little of both.

**I’m calling you tonight and I expect to hear results, or so help me god. L**

Another shot at the subway station then. Derek figures Laura will know if he’s lying (she always does), and it’s 10 am on a Monday, so the dude from yesterday will probably be at school. It’s not his spot while he’s not using it. Derek showers, gets dressed, works out a crick in his neck, and when there’s finally nothing he can do in good conscience to delay today’s venture, he finally decides to pull out the jacket Laura bought him before leaving.

It’s just as cold as the day before, and there are just as many people in the streets. Derek still isn’t at all motivated to play. There’s nothing like an older sister’s wrath, though; no matter how big Derek gets, he’ll always be the 8-year-old Laura hung upside-down from the apple tree in the garden until he cried for mercy. He’s going to play, even if it damn well kills him – or Laura probably will. Derek Hale is no coward. He can do this. He can _do_ this.

He can’t do this. And that, again, is because there’s currently a keyboard set up when Derek gets down the stairs, and because, again, a familiar-looking guy with dark, fingerless gloves (coffee stains not visible) is working whatever magic he works that makes people bend to his will.

And he plays. God, he fucking _plays_ , and Derek just has to stop for a moment.

Due to the earflaps on the awful hat, Derek is in the guy’s blind spot. There’s a cardboard sign in front of him, next to the open carrier bag, that says “Christmas with Stiles Stilinski!” in bright red letters. There’s sketched what Derek thinks is supposed to be a Christmas tree at the bottom of the sign, but it’s at an odd angle.

And Stiles is good. As in, he’s _good._ Not just some kid with a hobby. He’s all easy smiles and he’s confident as his long fingers slow-dance over the keys like it’s no big deal, and ‘[Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUaH6fDo4MA)’ never made Derek’s pulse pick up before; it’s exactly like watching Laura, or his dad, or _her_. The space between his lungs abruptly starts hurting.

Derek quickly turns on his heels, his heart stuck in his throat, and almost knocks over the woman handing out free newspapers at the top of the stairs when he hurries towards home. His fingers are twitching.

 

Back in the apartment, Derek practically hauls his jacket off, doesn’t even get his shoes off, before pulling the cello out of the case. He flings himself into the new arm chair, the smell of fresh leather still clinging to it, and gets his knees fit snug to either side of the instrument’s body. It’s achingly familiar; body memory, like walking, like riding a bike, like breathing, even though it’s been feeling like remembering how to manage an awkward, unpractised tango for a year. Derek presses his cheek briefly to the neck, and the fingerboard is cold against his skin. He grips the bow, has to force himself to lessen his hold, and sets it to the strings.

The first drag of the bow pricks immediate goose bumps into his arms. He closes his eyes. It’s nothing like what Stiles played; it's heavier, it's livid. He’s not entirely sure what it is. When you’ve played for some years, all the different song titles tend to blur together. He never forgets a song, plays each one all out from memory if given the first few notes, but titles have always seemed to elude him. Maybe it’s Mozart. She liked Mozart. Derek hears the fine hairs on the bow ripping, feels the painfully relieving ache in his elbows, in his chest, leans into the music, and loses himself.

 

Laura calls him around eight that evening, when Derek’s fingers are aching and he’s crawled up to his books. He puts down the copy of The Dark Half, digs out the phone from under the pillow behind him, and presses it to his ear with;

“I’ve played today.” Laura hums on the other end.

“ _Outside?_ ” she asks, and Derek knows she already knows the answer. Sisters.

“No,” he concedes.

“ _Derek, seriously—_ “

“I’m getting there, okay?” Derek interrupts her, as he looks down at the hand holding the book.

“I’m getting there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piano: [Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mUaH6fDo4MA)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t been to New York in my life, haven’t even visited the States, so I’m writing this whole thing on a whim, from what people have told me, and from the massive amount of research I’ve done on… well, everything, ranging from New York pigeon-species and Starbucks reviews to tube station blue prints. Only time will tell if my sources are bogus or not, so please forgive me if I make mistakes!  
> As always, beta-ing and art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com).

  
[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilhayden/8259061780/)

art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com/)

 

Stiles unties and redoes the laces on his boots, getting the circulation back in his stiff fingers. A pigeon looks up at him from the foot of the stoop. Stiles quirks an eyebrow at it, says “sup, bro” and the sudden sound of it startles the bird into taking flight. He’s not that heartbroken about it. He spends a good ten minutes pulling his stuff out from the foot end of his sleeping bag before shoving it down in its own bag – bag-ception for pros, people – fixing his crooked sweater and his scarf. Stiles gets up, slowly stretching his legs awake, as he slips his jacket back on. It’s cold as balls already – winter is going to be freezing beyond compare if it starts this early. Stiles is absolutely not looking forward to the prospect of snowfall.

He hikes up his backpack, the sleeping bag, and his keyboard, and starts towards Union Square in the icy morning air. He smiles at the girl at the news stand on 25th Street, takes a right. Stiles likes walking. It gets him going, and not only places; he likes the stretch in his calves when he’s been marching down the already busy streets, sometimes finding silent pockets of people-less skips and sidewalks. Plus, it’s good warm up – literally.

“Morning! My, you’re really looking tremendously handsome today, did you get a new haircut?” Stiles calls out, crossing the threshold to the small coffee shop close to the square. The vendor at the till perks up, flashes Stiles a slanted grin. The only customer in the shop, a woman waiting for her to-go order at the end of the bar, barely glances up before going back to her newspaper.

“Hey man,” Scott says, reaching over the counter to fist bump Stiles’ mitten-clad hand and then getting out a mug. Stiles waggles his eyebrows at him.

“What do you say? Do I get to impose again?”

“Only always?” Scott grins, steam rising behind the counter when he fills the mug with amazing-smelling coffee that makes Stiles’ nostrils flare in anticipation. Scott hands him the treasured, steaming mug, and Stiles takes it gratefully, immediately bringing it up to his face and groaning with bliss as he inhales the Holy Vapours of All Things Good and Glorious.

Scott makes his way around the counter, and Stiles follows, mug in one hand, baggage in the other. As he’s done so many times before, Stiles unloads his backpack and his sleeping bag in the small, dimly lit staff room that nobody really uses as anything but a closet; he stuffs a few necessities from the backpack into the keyboard bag; depressingly empty wallet, paper napkins, fingerless gloves, yesterday’s newspaper. Scott waits for him in the doorway, making small talk, telling Stiles about his girlfriend Allison, their something-month anniversary, his suspicion that his boss is, in fact, a soul-sucking vampire out to get people who values fun, but at least he doesn’t come in often.

Stiles played for Scott and Allison’s Big Date in the park a while back, because Stiles is a fucking genius, and because Scott was the first friend he made in New York. It was horrifically sweet and undeniably awkward and Stiles liked Allison instantly, mostly because she made Scott even goofier than he is on a daily basis. Not that Stiles, technically, has enough data to properly back up his theory; he only really sees Scott at the coffee place, but that’s fine. He’s a bro, a god damn buddy, and he supplies Stiles with coffee because he sometimes plays on weekends just outside the shop.

Stiles leaves his empty mug at the counter and Scott pats him on the back on the way out.

“I’m off at four!” he shouts after Stiles, narrowly avoiding slapping the waiting lady, now with coffee and on the way out, in the mouth. Stiles snickers under his breath when he hears Scott’s colleague, a blonde woman with red lipstick, berating him, and trots towards the station entrance with the keyboard on his back.

What _did_ he play for that date? Scott had wanted something light-hearted, something that set the mood in the park. Maybe Stiles had taken it a bit too far. Jon Schmidt is a genius, okay. And Stiles had been wanting to do [All Of Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fAZIQ-vpdw) for a while, so “something up-beat, man, something she’ll be impressed by!” had become just that. Well. Mostly it had entertained the other people in the park. Scott and Allison had spent most of the time being gooey and staring at each other on the bench not too far from where Stiles was set up, playing and supposed to look like he didn’t know who Scott was.

Stiles flips his keyboard out and gets it ready. The guy – the very attractive guy – with the cello case from the other day hasn’t showed up again. Stiles briefly wonders if he found a good spot for himself. Maybe he found an even better spot. That would just be Stiles’ luck. 

Stiles thinks maybe he should start with All Of Me today. His fingers are still freezing, and if nothing else, that’ll definitely get them moving. It’s not Christmas-y, but if it gets his hands functioning properly, it’ll be worth those few less tips.

 

\---

 

Stiles’ mittens get stolen sometime during the next night. That in itself sucks all kinds of ass, because now he’ll definitely have to be careful not to get frostbite when it gets even colder, but it also sucks because they matched his hat. At least he still has that; Stiles makes a point to tie the damn thing to his head with the strings to the point of choking when he sleeps.

But life goes on, mittens or no mittens, and it’s Saturday afternoon, so Stiles sets up outside the coffee shop and puts on his fingerless gloves. He’s picking at a loose thread on the right ring finger when Scott sticks a paper cup under Stiles’ nose.

“You looked like you needed something a little stronger,” he comments, and Stiles can smell the sticky-sweet syrup and the extra espresso.

“You’re a saint, and you’re definitely getting my taste in coffee better than I do myself,” he tells Scott. It’s true. Scott always sort of knows what he needs, and today, sugar is high on his list of things Stiles wants. That and new mittens. Scott claps him on the back and goes inside to turn on the lights surrounding the entrance to the coffee shop. It’s already 3:45 and the weather has been gloomy and frosty as hell all day; there’s no snow yet, but it must be getting close. The lights provide a bit of atmosphere, and Stiles can let himself go a little; he has coffee, and his fingers are warming up as he plays [I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZMqCK-kRMY). [  
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZMqCK-kRMY)

By the time it starts getting dark, Stiles has only played for about 30 minutes, but a wind is coming in from the end of the street and it’s only getting harder. He’s too exposed in front of the shop, and while the tips are better here, there’s shelter at the subway station. Stiles bites back his pride, thinks of his health, and tells Scott he’ll be back for his things before he’s off at 7.

Stiles sulks all the way (which isn’t a very long way, to be fair) to the station entrance. People are milling around, a grandma with her grandson in tow, a business man in a long coat and nice shoes, a young couple kissing at the top of the stairs. Stiles can’t help but give them a long look as he descends, making his way under the city, away from the wind and as much of the cold as he can manage; away from the world above.

Mom would have loved to play at subway stations. She would have loved New York. Dad, probably not so much. Not a big city kind of man at all. Stiles shakes off the chill creeping under his jacket and sets up his keyboard. He’s shuffling the bag in front, ready to catch any spare change, when he senses someone stopping right to his left. Stiles looks up, one hand clasping the edge of the keyboard per reflex.

Wow. Eyebrows Of Doom is back. The Incredible Sulk. Cello Guy. Whatever. Too many amazing opportunities to choose from. Ominous Cellist is carrying his cello (big surprise) and he’s standing there, staring at Stiles like… the word isn’t “oddly” but Stiles isn’t sure how else to describe it. Just staring, arms by his sides, case on his back. Stiles can’t help but stare back. Then the guy clears his throat.

“Still my spot,” Stiles interrupts to remind him, feeling bold. Or deciding that he should try and seem bold, at least. The guy nods. Then he glances down at the Christmassy red Starbucks cup in his hand. Stiles follows his line of vision. He can’t for the life of him figure out what the hell Mr. Intense is doing – and more importantly, why he’s now looking at Stiles again, eyes narrowed. Stiles shuffles a little on the spot.

Then the guy holds out the coffee. Stiles’ eyebrows go sky-high. The guy shoves it a little closer, and Stiles backs away a step. Then the guy fucking _frowns_.

“It’s not poisoned, Jesus,” he mutters, and sets the coffee down next to Stiles, apparently out of patience. Stiles stares at the coffee next to his foot.

“It’s new, I didn’t drink from it yet. Gingerbread latte.” He makes a little nod towards the beverage on the floor. Stiles would swear on his mo— on someone’s grave, that the guy’s ears are red. Must be the cold. Stiles assesses him quickly, up and down. Handsome in that raw, stubbly way that says “I make women swoon just by breathing”, just like the other day (but Stiles supposes that isn’t something that goes away over night). Probably late twenties. Cellist, duh. But why he’s giving Stiles coffee – _gingerbread latte_ coffee, what is up with this guy, not even Stiles drinks that – he hasn’t got anything that just looks like a clue or is even vaguely similar to one. None. Stiles glances at the paper cup and then at the guy. Oh what the hell.

“You any good?” Stiles asks, crossing his arms and jerking his chin towards the case on the guy’s back. For a second, he looks like he forgot he still had it. Then he quirks an eyebrow at Stiles, which is, needless to say, an unfairly hot gesture.

“Yes.” Stiles huffs lightly around a grin.

“Oh, confidence. Fine. Then get out your weapon, you’re playing with me.” Stiles turns to fiddle with tightening the screws on the keyboard stand. The cellist just stands there, awkwardly, and Stiles has to wonder how a man shaped like _that_ manages to look like a baby animal. Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Show your stuff, dude!” His counterpart furrows his brows.

“I’m not really sure about that.”

Stiles chooses to ignore that, and pulls his scarf a little tighter around his neck as he fires up the system.

“Santa Claus Is Coming To Town?” He looks sideways at the guy. He’s still as a statue for a long, long moment, before he slowly starts hiking the large case off his bag. Stiles is already counting that as a win.

“No,” replies Musical Adonis reluctantly.

“Rudolph The Red Nosed Reindeer?”

“No.”

“Last Christmas?”

“Definitely no.”

“Oh come on!” Stiles throws his arms in the air, sending the tassels on his hat dancing.

“I don’t really do Christmas tunes,” says Scrooge, and oh don’t you think that Stiles here isn’t noticing that your precious string instrument is barely out of its case. And now, now it’s becoming a question of honour. A principle. And Stiles Stilinski is to be damned if he isn’t going to make this pretty caveman play his cello.

“Fine,” says Stiles, and cants his head to the side and scowls. “Pick something not Christmas, you Grinch!”

For a moment, Murder Brows (and Stiles really needs to pick one name, because he’s starting to confuse himself with options here) looks like he actually _does_ consider murdering Stiles. If it could be done quietly and neatly.

“[Bring Him Home](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mJ08-pyDLg), Les Misérables.” [  
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mJ08-pyDLg)

Stiles gapes longer than he probably should.

“I’m sorry?” This scruffy, sour-looking thundercloud of a pissed off, good-looking man is choosing something that… soft? Stiles blinks.

“Oh, that… Okay. Yeah, we can definitely do that. Yes.” And Stiles smiles, and it feels a little crooked and maybe a bit too _nice_. It quickly turns into a smirk when he sees a hint of regret wash over Grinch’s face; thought you were getting out of that one, were you? Stiles knows his shit. He _knows_ it. So he settles on his stool as his new partner finally pulls off his scarf, gets out his cello and a fold-away stool and starts fixing the endpin, and Stiles honestly isn’t sure whether to be more impressed by the body of the man when he bends, or the body of the instrument, so he decides on neither and focuses on his keyboard. After a moment, he senses more than sees the man settling by his side, gets a ready nod, and sets his fingers to the keys.

The first few notes are Stiles’. He’s never afraid of taking the lead; he’s used to playing by himself, used to having to fill out a whole metaphorical stage single-handed. He can out-weigh the lack of a band, his total lack of singing voice, because he knows how to play. He’s talked a bit to Isaac, a guitarist who plays and sings out and about, mostly in Soho. The singers always make the most. But Stiles makes the best of it; it’s the only thing he really has.

That’s when the man on his left suddenly takes control of his bow like he’s Katniss Freaking Everdeen.

For a long moment, Stiles’ fingers are moving completely by themselves, rescued by emergency body memory.

It’s not so much the fact that the cellist by his side seems to have forgotten how hard he’d actually tried to get out of playing. It isn’t so much that the first drag of the bow over the strings _surprises_ Stiles as such, because he hadn’t expected him to be bad or anything. He doesn’t look like a total amateur, and the instrument looks expensive as hell, and he chose a fucking _Broadway_ number.

Stiles can’t stop looking, casting glances whenever he feels certain and secure of the next few keystrokes.

It’s how this man holds the instrument, how he cradles the very sounds it makes, like he needs to taste every note before they go. Slowly, his head droops just a little lower, the obvious clench in his jaw loosens a bit. Stiles plays like his life is suddenly depending on it; he feels he needs to. He’s actually quite sure that this is the most important thing he’s going to do in a while, and the fact that he doesn’t at all know why isn’t a problem.

Jesus _Christ_ , he’s good.

Stiles feels this little shudder starting at the base of his spine. His hands are dancing over the keys. It’s like a rush, but he can’t back-trace it. This is just every-day stuff, or, well, almost. He doesn’t play Misérables every day, it’s not for the commuting crowd, but it’s not harder as such than so much else. This is what he _does_. Except he usually plays alone. And he’s never played a duet with a cellist before. He’s played with an old classmate who played the violin, but that was long ago, and she wasn’t even that good, but the cello is different, heavier and deeper, and Stiles hasn’t given it much thought before. The cello burns along his nerve endings with something that sounds like how a feeling of longing would sound, an ache, something that’s bottom-less and deep and all-consuming.

And Stiles comes to the conclusion that it’s fucking breathtaking.

There’s a small round of sporadic applause when they finish, and they haven’t made a lot on it, but Stiles doesn’t care. He can’t hold back a wide grin, even though it’s probably really uncool.

“That was awesome,” he breathes. The guy is looking at anything but Stiles, his face tilted down to inspect his shoes. When Stiles looks closer, though, there’s a hint of a smile, just a brush of it, on the guy’s face.

“I honestly thought you only did preppy shit and Christmas songs,” he says, amusement and maybe a little (just a little) pride colouring the words. Stiles huffs.

“Hold your tongue, man, I just happen to like doing things made after the dark ages. Plus, it pays better. You’re an idiot if you don’t know that.” The guy just shrugs. He’s still smiling that very, very slight smile. It’s pretty sweet. If anything, he seems just as surprised about what just happened as Stiles is, he’s just hiding it way, way, more way, and a long way more, better. The guy fiddles with his bow and looks at Stiles nervously.

“So,” he begins, just when Stiles says the same. Stiles giggle snorts, and the guy rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“So maybe we should try something else?” And it’s sweet that he looks hopeful. It really is. And Stiles wishes he could stay and play for another ten hours, preferably, but it’s twenty to seven and Scott turns into a pumpkin in not long. Or something. Stiles never really paid much attention to that story. Glass slippers, Jesus, he’d rather eat pepper with a spoon.

“I need to get going, it’s a bit late and it’s kinda cold, you know?” And it is late, because he needs to find somewhere and get comfortable because it does get dangerous on your own if it gets too late and you’re still moving around, drawing attention. Stiles knows this. He’s very much grateful for the heavy boots his dad gave him; they pack a kick like a mule.

“Oh,” says the guy, and Stiles smiles at him as he starts packing away his keyboard.

“Well, uh, I don’t actually live that far away,” the guy suddenly blurts, and Stiles just manages to catch the look of utter surprise on his face. He makes half a protest, panic slowly rising in his stomach, when a hand lands on the edge of the keyboard half inside the bag.

“If it’s the transport I can lend you money for a cab home afterwards? Christmas and all. Presents are expensive, I get that you have to save what you can.” Oh you bet, Stiles thinks, and looks at the hand on his keyboard. Lovely hand, that is. He follows the line of the wrist and the arm and the shoulder it’s attached to, and ends up looking his, apparently, new buddy in the eye. He looks a bit like a kid who just discovered a new game and wants to keep playing. Not that Stiles would ever be someone’s plaything, no sir.

Stiles peers down at the forgotten cup of gingerbread latte. It’s probably super cold now. Pity. It’s not really him, but free coffee. Starbucks coffee. That shit’s expensive as fuck. He can still feel the aftermath of the adrenaline kick it was playing a duet for the first time in years; finding the rhythm, depending on your partner. They had fucking _clicked._ Stiles takes a breath, licks his lips.

“Alright.” Wrong answer, man. Stiles thanks his brain immensely for betraying him. It helps a little that his new personal cellist is rushing to pack away his instrument so much he almost trips over himself. Stiles glances at his watch. Shit. Ten to seven. They get up the stairs quickly, rushed along by evening commuters, Stiles at the back.

“I, uh, I need to go get a thing. From a friend. Just real quick, he works at the coffee shop on the corner and he’s holding onto some things for me, so if you could just wait here, maybe? And I’ll be right back?” Stiles babbles, and the guy just nods and steps off to the side of the staircase to wait.

“Be right back. Scout’s honour,” Stiles says as he steers towards the coffee shop and why in the _hell_ is he making such a big deal out of this, this _thing_. It’s not a thing. It's so far from a thing it's become a no-thing. It's nothing. Stiles just isn’t sure how he’s going to explain that he carries around a sleeping bag and the world’s largest rucksack.

It comes down to improvisation, as always.

“I’m going to a friend’s pretty late tonight, to sleep over, so I’ve just had this in storage until I was done playing. So yeah.” It sounds like the lamest excuse in the world, even to his own ears. But cello dude seems content and starts off down the street. For someone who looks like their default mode is “broody and reclusive”, he seems awfully chipper. In a broody and reclusive way.

Stiles briefly checks for the mace in his bag. Who knows. Mr. Murder Brows could potentially _be_ an actual murderer. Who kills. With his brows. It’s a thing, okay.

The building is a remodelled concrete block with only two apartments, apparently. The mailbox says D. Hale. Stiles suddenly remembers.

“Dude, you haven’t actually introduced yourself.” His to-be host looks at him for a second, more of that dazed surprise on his face. Is he high or what?

“You so do not want me to come up with a name. Unless, actually, how do you feel about Miguel? You look like a Miguel—“

“Derek,” interrupts the man in front of him.

“My name is Derek. Don’t call me Miguel.” And we’re back to the scowling, Stiles thinks. He was almost getting worried about the dude’s face. It could get stuck looking like that of a blissed-out sparrow on festering berries. That’d be horrible.

Derek’s place is nice. It’s fancy. _It’s a huge fucking loft_. Stiles doesn’t exactly expect that. You don’t expect that with people playing at subway stations for change. The place has its own elevator and is spacious enough to fit at least three people full-time. Stiles clutches his belongings, tries to appear nonchalant. It’s been a while since he was in a home. Anyone’s home, really. It’s huge and it’s light and— there’s a grand piano in the middle of the big living room space. Stiles stares at it hungrily, he can’t help himself.

“You didn’t say you played the piano,” he says as Derek points to where he can put his boots by the door.

“I don’t. It’s mostly my sister who uses it when she visits.” Derek hangs his jacket on a hook next to the door and moves to the kitchen like he’s used to having Stiles over. Stiles fiddles with his layers and tries to make his stuff take up as little space as possible.

“What’s your sister’s name?” That’s polite curiosity. Stiles is good at small talk.

“Laura,” says Derek absentmindedly, opening the fridge and taking out two beers.

Wait. Hold up. Rewind.

“Wait. Hale— your sister is _Laura Hale_?” Derek finally turns, like he’s realising maybe the stranger in his freaking apartment isn’t sure what to do with himself.

“Yeah?” he says, lifting his eyebrows in Stiles’ general direction.

“For real?” Stiles breathes incredulously.

“She’s probably _the_ best concert pianist at the moment, you have got to be kidding me!” Stiles, this is your life. Derek just shakes his head. There’s still that hint of a smile though.

 

They don’t play. Two beers become four become six become a number Stiles isn’t entirely familiar with. At some point after beer number two for each of them, the mood loosens up. Stiles feels awkward and out of place on the – obviously – expensive leather couch in Derek’s nice apartment, while Derek is trying to appear casual but only succeeds in looking like someone who just realised they brought home a stranger without thinking the implications through.

They end up discussing music, and while Stiles isn’t actually drunk, the buzz the beers set in his blood does make for a nice confidence in what’s probably supposed to be a super bizarre situation. It only gets weirder when Stiles thinks he just blinks, you know, because his eyes get dry, and when he’s opening them again, Derek’s urging him up a ladder to a bed loft or balcony or what the hell they’re called, and going to bed is quick, formal, with Derek telling him that he can help himself to the massive amount of books along the walls upstairs. And Stiles doesn’t complain. His cover story is going to stand its trial tomorrow, or at least he’s just going to have to convince Derek that he’s just a really shit friend who doesn’t bother showing up for sleep-overs. But not now. He’s tired, there’s a mattress under his back, and for a few long seconds he actually has to keep himself from crying when he settles down on the bed.

 It’s the beer. It has to be the beer.

Stiles falls asleep in 0.2 seconds with his face buried deep in a pillow. A pillow. It’s like a god damn fairy tale.

 

\---

 

The next day is about as much of a supernatural blur as the few late hours of the night before was. Stiles wakes up later than he has in a very long time, and Derek is in the open kitchen, leaning over a cup of coffee, when he carefully gets down the ladder. Stiles steals a glance at the clock on the wall; Christ on a cracker, it’s 2 in the afternoon. When did he _ever_ sleep until 2 in the afternoon? High school?

They don’t make eye contact, and Derek accepts Stiles’ rushed “uh, I better go talk to my friend, apologise for, you know, last night” with nothing but a hum. Stiles slips on his boots, grabs his keyboard, and bolts.

He’s half-way down with the elevator when he realises his things are still in the apartment. Stiles knocks his head against the wall a few times, and the metal wall’s vibrating blares him in the face. He groans. He’ll come back later when he isn’t feeling like a douche bag.

 

He drops by Scott’s work to use the bathroom, sits there for a few hours to keep warm, Scott chattering away when there aren’t any customers. Stiles doesn’t mention Derek. He doesn’t want to.

“Didn’t you have a boyfriend at some point?” Scott asks, out of nowhere, when he brings Stiles something that’s the lovechild of coffee and eggnog. Bless. Stiles frowns.

“What do you mean?” Scott just shrugs and leans against Stiles’ table.

“Just, you were talking to that guy a while back. Danny-something. You were in a hurry yesterday, did you talk to him again? You said you’d been meaning to.”

Stiles sulks into his mug and gets foam on his upper lip.

“It was nothing. I stayed over at his a few times,” _because he had a bed I could sleep in_ , Stiles thinks. It’s not like they did anything. Scott pats his back and goes to take an order from a teenage girl and her little sister in matching windbreakers.

Stiles ends up going to the subway and playing most of the evening away, mindless Christmas songs and endless music until his head is full of nothing but just that. That part was always Stiles’ favourite. Just losing yourself in the music is easy on a good day; on bad days it gets increasingly difficult getting back to the real world. But Stiles is fine. He’s fine.

He makes a good few bucks and eats at Burger King half-way to Derek’s. He still needs to get his things, thank Derek for a night’s hospitality, say sorry for passing out on him, and then he’ll high-tail it out of the neighbourhood before things get weird. They’re probably already weird. Can things get weird with people you don’t actually know? Is there a scale? Stiles groans into his coke.

Apparently, the buzzer isn’t working right, so Derek has to come all the way down with the elevator to let Stiles in. He can wait just inside the street door in the tiny hallway between outside and the two elevators, to which you apparently need a key, which is nice, because the wind from yesterday has only picked up, and it feels twice as cold with the wind howling outside. Stiles needs mittens. He desperately needs new mittens. He steals a glance at Derek when he enters the elevator, stoic and looking blankly at the wall. He’s wearing sweatpants, dear god. Ten whole seconds in a confined space feels like a hell of a lot longer.

Stiles is gathering his things while Derek disappears briefly into what is probably his bedroom; an adjoining room next to the kitchen. When he reappears, Stiles is almost shouldering his rucksack, and then Derek tosses a towel at him, Stiles catching it in front of him out of pure reflex.

“Shower’s in there.” Derek jerks his head towards the only other door in the apartment besides the one to the bedroom. The corner of his mouth curls slightly.

“Goodnight,” says Derek, disappears into his room, and closes the door.

Uh. Yeah.

Stiles looks at the towel in his hands, rucksack hanging off his shoulder, long forgotten. The towel is the same blue as the sheets on the bed upstairs. Stiles wonders if it’s intentional. Probably not. Guys like Derek don’t care about interior design.

Stiles is pretty sure he’s never enjoyed a shower that much, even though Derek’s shampoo smells like some kind of mix between hazel nuts and coconut, and Stiles smells like a freakin’ White Russian or some kind of chocolate bar when he finally gets out, pruny and clean as a whistle. He’s a little horrified about the prospect of smelly-ing up Derek’s most likely expensive sheets, regrets just discarding himself fully dressed in a bed that isn’t his the night before, but there’s nothing to do about that now.

While lugging his rucksack up on the platform guest room, Stiles tries not to let himself assess the possibility that Derek knows he hasn’t got a place to stay. Stiles’ pride needs a break, sometimes. He also has to remind himself that just because he’s bringing his bag upstairs, it doesn’t mean he’s nesting. It helps that he falls asleep about as easily as the night before, this time after actually getting most of his clothes off. That’s the first time in a while too.

 

\---

 

Stiles walks in on Derek shrugging a shirt off in the living room early the next morning. Or, technicaly he _crawls down_ on Derek shrugging off his shirt, but that sounds sort of wrong, even though he really does come down the ladder to find Derek struggling with the cord from the earphones he’s wearing, wire going under the shirt half-way over his head. Stiles can faintly hear the music, something generic he might’ve heard on the radio at a diner. Derek swears under his breath and wrenches it completely off. He’s wearing trainers and the sweats from yesterday and the keys are on the coffee table. Stiles leaps to the assumption that he’s been out for a run or something. At least he works to look like that. It immediately makes Stiles feel better. Derek’s got a large spiral-something tattoo between his shoulder blades. A low whistle would have been in order, because damn, those shoulder blades, but Stiles doesn’t whistle. Of course.

Derek turns off the music, and Stiles sees the moment Derek notices Stiles standing behind him and tenses up. There we go; awkward is back with a vengeance. And while that isn’t Stiles’ fault, because Derek could just change in like, his room, or in the bathroom when he has a guest, Stiles is known for trying to put a healthy, humorous spin on most situations because, well, he’s a tool.

“It’s nice. The tattoo. What does it mean?” King of Small Talk. Derek freezes in place. Stiles quickly re-evaluates his kingdom rule.

“Uh,“ Stiles says, before Derek snaps back at him—

“It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just a _tattoo._ ” He then proceeds to stalk off to brood or run some more or whatever he does, and Stiles, finally coming to terms with the fact that he hasn’t slept properly in _months_ , decides to just go back to bed. If Derek offers him a bed, he’ll bloody well take him up on that offer until he kicks him out on ass and elbows.

 

Stiles comes crawling down the ladder around 7 pm. He feels warm and lax and sleepy, but no longer in an exhausted way. The apartment is nicely lit; not too bright, just in spots here and there. It’s nice. Derek comes sauntering (and how does he do that, how does he work that, fucking honestly) towards Stiles and hands him a plate, before passing him and settling himself on the couch with one of his own. Stiles only stares for a moment, because did Derek just make him dinner? Some kind of omelette pocket-thing with something inside. Stiles suspiciously sits down at the other end of the couch and grabs the cutlery Derek has placed on the coffee table. He eyes Derek who doesn’t seem to notice anything but his own food, and when cutting the egg-pocket open, Stiles finds chicken and vegetables stuffed inside. Derek turns on the television on a Mets game and Stiles dives into his food like a drowning man for air.

 “You want a beer?” Derek finally asks. Stiles glances at him, mouth full, and nods. He tries not to look at Derek’s ass when he passes in front of the television.

There’s a great deal of chewing and swearing involved the next twenty minutes, because apparently, Derek is as die-hard a Mets fan as Stiles is. Stiles tries not to let that get to his head. It doesn’t stop it from being hilarious though. Stiles has missed this. He’s missed friends, he’s missed feeling _normal_.

He gulps. No, bad thoughts. Chill. Just enjoy yourself.

Stiles doesn’t tense up again until Derek, after a few more beers (and Stiles is seeing a pattern here, he really is, but he’s buzzed and gets off on a sidetrack) stretches out in a leather chair that still smells new, and fixes Stiles who’s spread out on the length of sofa with a look that very much resembles concern. Which is a pity. Because he’d just become relaxed enough to appreciate that Derek is, in fact, a very nice guy, without feeling bad about himself for it.

“What happened?” Derek asks, and Stiles thinks, that’s it, that’s just about it, I’m not getting out of this one. And maybe it’s the beers or the fact that Derek touched his shoulder and cheered at one point when the Mets were doing great, but his pride doesn’t hurt as much as he’d expected it to. So Stiles takes a swig from his beer, shrugs, and tries to hide his slight blush in the bottle.

“Came here when my dad died,” Stiles says, because that seems like a logical place to start. He could start earlier, tell about his mom dying of cancer when he was 11, his sheriff dad over-working and over-drinking and over-thinking until his body gave up a year ago. He doesn’t.

“I didn’t want to be the poor orphan in the small town, and like, everybody knew, and it was hard ignoring the looks people gave me. I didn’t want that.” Stiles traces the rim of the bottle with his index finger. He’s buzzed. It’s nice. Derek’s looking at him like he’s really listening. That’s nice too.

“I had a job for a few months, but I kind of messed it up. Shit just happens. It happens, you know? And then you can’t really do anything but go “hey, shit, you happened”, I guess.” Stiles chuckles. Glances at the piano.

“We never played,” he says, and Derek shakes his head. Stiles sniffles.

Wait, wait, is he crying? Or is it cold-sniffles? Stiles isn’t sure. He closes his eyes for a moment and feels Derek’s hand settle on his shoulder. It’s warm, and it’s heavy, and it’s like getting dunked in cold water. Stiles suddenly doesn’t feel buzzed anymore.

“I think it’s time you go to bed,” Derek says, and for whatever absolutely ridiculous reason Stiles can think of, he has no idea why Derek god damn Hale is letting him stay.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Piano: [All of Me](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9fAZIQ-vpdw)
> 
> Piano: [I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yZMqCK-kRMY)
> 
> Piano & cello: [Bring Him Home (from Les Misérables)](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mJ08-pyDLg)


	3. Chapter 3

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilhayden/8278970094/)

art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com/)

 

Derek figures that the soft hint of music has been registering through his sleeping state for about a minute or two when he slowly opens his eyes to the darkness of his bedroom. Time always registers weirdly when you’re slumbering, which Derek happened to be. Just slumbering, really; deep sleep seems like a week-old dream. He’s been sleeping so much in the guest bed that his own feels unfamiliar by now; the mattress is just that short of actually uncomfortable, pillow a little scratchy. The bed is too big for one person.

The blinding display on his phone tells him it’s just past two at night. He’d ushered Stiles to bed around midnight, kid not exactly drunk as a skunk but close. Maybe. Derek’s not sure; his occupant had gone odd, gone quiet. His _homeless_ occupant. Derek doesn’t deal well with odd and quiet as a mix, and the sniffling didn’t make things better. Sleep always helps. If you _can_ sleep. Which - considering that Derek, now mostly awake, is becoming fairly sure that he wasn’t imagining quiet piano music - Stiles probably couldn’t. 2 am. Time enough to shake off an alcoholic buzz.

Derek shrugs off the blanket twisted around his feet and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Even that seems off. He likes that the one upstairs is close to the floor. Slipping on a t-shirt and hiking up his sleep pants a bit, Derek pads barefoot to his door and unlocks it very, very quietly. What. Of course he would lock the door. It’s not that Stiles looks like an axe murderer, but you know, just in case, as Laura always says. Plus, guaranteed privacy. Just in case.

Stiles is playing the grand piano, fingers barely touching the keys. Every press is careful, feather-light, like he thinks he can make the instrument quieter and quieter if he just ghosts his fingers across it. Derek is prone to think he’s managing to do that. It’s slow and it’s lovely even though it’s barely an actual melody as much as just random bits of a song, and Derek feels goose bumps rise just below his hairline.

Derek closes the door to the bedroom behind him with a click, and Stiles starts so hard in his seat that it almost looks painful, palms slamming down on the keys in an ugly clash of sound that makes Derek wince.

“Holy god,” Stiles says and breathes in as he relaxes again, fingers slipping off the keys and into his lap. He presses one hand to his chest like people, for some reason, always tend to do when they’ve been shocked.  

“Sorry,” Derek mumbles as he steps a little closer and leans against the kitchen counter five paces from the piano. Stiles shakes his head.

“No man, _I’m_ sorry,” he says, and his face is all kinds of ashamed and frowning at himself.

“I thought if I played carefully you wouldn’t wake up, that’s not cool, I just sort of, you know, figured this place was insulated as hell.” Derek watches as he, probably unconsciously, shakes off the remnants of the shock with a little roll of his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Derek says, and walks to rest his crossed arms on the body of the piano. Stiles stays on the stool, looking like he doesn’t know if now is an appropriate time to get up, and like he doesn’t really want to. He looks up to meet Derek’s inquisitive gaze and the question that follows.

“I think I’ve heard a snippet of that somewhere, what was it?”

Stiles’ grin makes Derek’s heart skip just half a beat.

“Yann Tiersen. I like him. He does a lot of movie soundtracks – "Naval" is one of my favourite compositions,” Stiles says, and then catches himself. Derek does notice that his hands have briefly been skimming over the keys again, like he doesn’t notice it, before drawing back and curling around his knees.

“Honestly, I’m sorry I woke you up, the piano was like, calling to me.” Stiles laughs. He looks tired.

“Also I should have asked. If I could play it, I mean. And obviously not in the middle of the night, your neighbour is going to want my head on a stick.” Derek really wants to tell Stiles that his neighbour is rarely home anyway and that the walls dividing the apartments are thick, but he’s too busy looking at Stiles.

Derek finds that he knows that feeling he sees in Stiles, something that simmers just under his skin. He recognises the compulsive brushing of the keys, the subconscious need to tap out a rhythm without anything playing. Like doodling while thinking in class, hand just moving and mind drifting. It’s like having a set of just three notes coming together in your head, something that makes perfect sense, and while it’s not even close to a full composition and probably never will be anymore than those three dots on note paper, it needs to be jutted down, because it’s been looping for days on end because it’s _just right_. It’s defying common sense and thinking fuck-all of sleep just to play, just to try and work out from those three notes – and being completely fine with it becoming nothing because, as it turns out, the rest of the melody doesn’t stand a chance against those few, perfect notes.

And Derek has missed that. He has missed that, and while he’s been playing more the past few days when Stiles has been out, probably playing at the subway for change he really actually needs, it still aches that he hasn’t gotten back the proper hold of that feeling yet. He’s getting there. He’s trying. He misses the need, he misses the drive, and he misses playing like that; like the music is his fingers walking briefly along a desk, swinging in his arms when he runs, thrumming on his breath, a part of him in a way that meant that when he _did_ sit down with the cello, he forgot where he ended and the instrument began, because it had been brewing in everything else he’d done that day.

So he clenches his hand, hidden by the body of the piano, reminds himself to breathe, and says—

“Finish the piece.” He steps around and sits next to Stiles on the long stool, plenty of room for two without having to touch.

“Please?” he adds, glancing to his right where Stiles is blinking at him for a few heartbeats before hesitantly bringing his hands back up like he’s afraid they’ll offend someone.

He finally presses the keys properly as he pieces together little bits and parts Derek recognises from before. [Naval](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pah9ZLNLfdI). Derek will have to remember that.

Stiles is in his jeans and this giant-ass sweater he seems to mostly wear as an over-shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The apartment is mostly dark, save for the light from outside peeking through the giant blinds covering the equally giant windows making out most of the wall facing the street. Stiles has turned on the tiny lamp on the piano, a lamp Derek never uses, and the yellow light is cast low, on Stiles’ hands nimbly waltzing over the keys, catching the hairs on his arms. Derek steals glances of his face, but Stiles’ eyes are on his work.

Derek is overwhelmed by a weird sense of longing, not necessarily for Stiles, but for something he can’t place his finger on. It hits him right between the ribs, deep like it originated from within. He once again needs to remind himself to breathe.

And what gets to him, as Stiles plays and plays, his head sometimes swaying with the music and the joints in his fingers bending and rolling like something separate from the rest of the world, is that there’s a stranger in his living room, in Derek’s _home_ , and he’s the most honest occupant the living space has ever seen. The walls are heavy with things and thoughts Derek won’t allow himself to submit to, even when he’s all by himself.

Stiles is wearing his emotions on his woolly sleeves and in his music. He doesn’t do that at the subway station. Derek decides that breathing is entirely overrated.

Stiles finishes and then looks at Derek, a nervous grin playing at his mouth, before he starts getting up, fingers brushing the keys just one more time, like a quiet, private _thank you_ that Derek feels isn’t in his place to notice. He feels electric as he mechanically stands. Stiles carefully closes the piano, mumbles something about being sorry again for waking him up, turns off the small light and heads for the ladder in the dark.

Derek goes back to his bed and scratchy pillow, tossing his shirt somewhere in the general direction of the laundry basket. He flops down on his back on top of the covers, arms flopping on either side of him, and stares into the ceiling. There’s a small crack in the corner by the door he’ll need to fix before it gets worse.

Derek stares at the crack for a while, motionless. There’s a twitch in his left thumb.

Then he gets up.

He leaves the door to the bedroom wide open, misses bumping into the stool by the piano by inches, and makes a beeline for the far corner of the apartment.

The ladder creaks on the second-to-last step at the top. Derek gets a hold of the railing surrounding the plateau and steps up on the smooth floor boards with practiced ease. The dark book cases are sucking the minimal light in, tiled shadows along the walls in the corner, crowding the mattress at their base. 

Stiles sits, unmoving, at the edge of the bed, his bare feet flat on the floor. In the dim light, Derek can only half make out his face, but he can see Stiles’ eyes almost clearly; set, alert. Like he’s waiting. Derek feels something twist in his stomach. His knuckles are white on the railing. Stiles’ left hand twitches where it rests on his knee, a barely-there motion, like an aborted gesture.

Stiles is on his feet by the time Derek abruptly wrenches himself out of shock-still comatose and moves forward, steps too heavy in the quiet space of the little pocket of hardwood and sweet-smelling books, hands surging forward with a hunger not unlike the craving he’d felt for his instrument when he’d first heard the pianist play (not for him, but for him all the same, it had been there, and he had _used_ it).

Derek’s hands fist in Stiles’ sweater, pulling him close (too roughly, it’s going to be a mess) until his nose fills with wool, and Stiles’ arms wrap around his shoulders. It lessens the itching in Derek’s fingers. But only a bit.

Stiles takes the first kiss for himself, and Derek is almost thankful. His brain is in overdrive, too many suggestions coming at him from ten different parts of his imagination all at once - an imagination which also seems to have geared up too quickly to keep up with itself, grinding and spinning and tilting the world on its axis when Stiles doesn’t hesitate to plunge his tongue in between Derek’s lips. It earns him an answering growl and a hand snapping around from the front of the sweater to Stiles’ lower back, grabbing hold. And latching _on._

Derek can actually hear the blood rushing past his ears, the veins are stark on the insides of his closed eyelids, pulsing, blinding, everything is becoming Stiles’ mouth, his tongue, his teeth when they snag (probably accidentally) on Derek’s upper lip as he pulls back momentarily to get his hands up on Derek’s cheeks.

Derek could actually be burning up. He thinks he is. He’s in fact fairly sure that Stiles’ hands are matches and his jaw the rough sides of the matchbox, lighting his face ablaze, and there’s not an ounce of protest to detect anywhere in himself at the thought. Instead, he dives further into the sensation, the warmth, inhales the dizzying heat, until even his throat feels on fire, until he has to pull back to breathe.

Stiles’ eyes are hooded, his breath puffing quickly against Derek’s mouth, hands still cupping Derek’s jaw. Derek can’t confidently point to a time in his life where he has been more turned on than right now, set on fire by Stiles, by a practical stranger. He’s fine with that. Stiles isn’t a stranger though, not really, he’s, he’s—

Stiles groans, definitely more out of surprise than pleasure, when Derek pulls him in again and promptly attaches his mouth, and more specifically his teeth, to the joint where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder. He’s not exactly chewing. Not _exactly_. It’s so damn close though. Stiles arches against him, back curving, and Derek’s toes curl into the floor.

They almost miss the 1½ person mattress when Derek falls down over Stiles, knocking the air out of them both, catching himself and bracketing Stiles’ head with his arms. They’re back to the kissing. Derek tries to remember the moment when, after the teenage years, kissing becomes a damn art form in itself. When it goes from being about the number of kisses and how far you dared go, to perfecting the way he licks into Stiles’ mouth and catches a swollen lower lip between teeth _just_ where it’s needed. Stiles groans into Derek’s mouth. Derek’s head reels with pride, with need and something else he can’t properly name.

Stiles rolls them over, for the second time barely missing falling off the mattress. He presses down on Derek with his full weight, hands frantic in a complete contrast to his composed, exact motions over the ivories. They skim over Derek’s chest, his shoulders, his sides, like Stiles can’t decide, like his mind is as full of ideas as Derek’s, too many to account for, too many to choose from.

This time, Derek makes the next move.

Managing to catch one of Stiles’ hands midway between his throat and his chest, Derek bites the bullet and shoves it clean against his crotch. He’s almost surprised when he finds himself moaning and bucking up instinctively; he’d barely registered just _how_ achingly hard he’d gotten. Stiles wastes no time and immediately reciprocates, palming Derek through his pyjama pants. His shoulder is pressing down hard against Derek’s, unsupported by the hand now fervently tracing the outline of Derek’s cock through the thin cotton, but Derek can’t find it in himself to care; his whole universe is whirling inwards on itself. Soon, there won’t be anything left. Nothing else. Just Derek, and Stiles, and— Stiles’ hand braving the tired elastic of his pants and dipping under the waistband.

Derek’s groan makes Stiles chuckle, the little shit, but it’s a breathless laugh, a puff of air, his cheek burning hot when he bends his head and rests it on Derek’s chest.

To look.

The realisation slams into Derek with surprising force, starting as a drone travelling like a pinball around the shells of his ears, rushing down his spine, straight to his dick in Stiles’ firm grip. Derek makes an almost embarrassing, guttural noise when Stiles licks a path from the centre of his chest to the spot behind his ear that could make him crumble to his sobbing knees for just about anybody. If Derek has any luck, Stiles knows that already, just from the way Derek’s legs lock around the back of his knees with bruising force, and his breath stutters to a complete stop for a few seconds. 

Derek sort of loses track when they start fumbling with clothes, constantly interrupted by their own impatience and the constant press of lips anywhere within reach, like horny teenagers. Stiles is pliant and tries to bend out of his clothes into every impossible direction Derek can think of, and he laughs, god he laughs, when Derek’s foot gets stuck in his pant leg. Derek growls into his mouth, Stiles beneath him again, as he gets Stiles’ boxers off.

They haven’t exchanged a single word. A few breaths that could have been curses when Stiles had squeezed Derek at _just_ the right pace, but no actual words. Not until Derek buries his forehead in Stiles’ throat, gets a hand on his narrow hipbone, lines up their dicks between them and fits his palm tightly around them both in one single movement. Stiles moans, his back arches and his hips stutter.

“Oh god fucking _damn—_ “

And Derek chokes on his own chuckle, like the sound died from a sudden stroke on the way out. He presses his face so close to Stiles he can barely breathe. Stiles grabs Derek’s shoulders, starts shoving his hips against Derek’s fist, which is actually a bit too tight around them to be entirely comfortable. Derek loosens his hold a bit, and Stiles must have taken that as an open invitation, promises of welcoming cocktails and free buffet included, because he starts thrusting against Derek in earnest, his cock dragging along Derek’s and the head catching on the webbing between Derek’s thumb and forefinger, each movement punctuated by a hitch of breath, a barely-groan, an honest-to-god whimper when Derek’s breath falls on his ear, teeth on his earlobe. The heat is building in Derek’s lower stomach so fast he thinks he might pass out. Stiles digs his blunt nails into Derek’s shoulders and Derek can’t get his free hand to cover enough ground, to hold the body under him hard enough.

And suddenly, there’s the rhythm; the harmony. Derek feels it, feels it when the melodies of Derek’s panting and Stiles’ hitching breaths sync up _perfectly._ Derek groans, loud and long, mouth squashed against Stiles’ ear.

Derek feels the shudder that rips through Stiles the second right before a moan becomes a hissing _fffffuuuuuck_ and Stiles comes between them, air sucked clean from his lungs, leaving his mouth hanging open, his head thrown back, and his bared throat for Derek to take. He traces Stiles’ bobbing Adam’s apple with his tongue, wonders if Stiles ever sings when he does solo acts on the subways. The thought tastes like salt.

Stiles is still twitching, head tilted back for Derek’s mouth, when Derek pushes his thighs together and, pressing a chaste kiss to Stiles’ slack, open mouth, presses in between them. His cock fits snug under Stiles’ balls, pressing into the soft flesh when he makes a first, trying shove of hips. Testing the waters. His shoulders are shaking with the effort not to just _take_.

Derek is burning white-hot now, nothing else matters; just the fire rumbling down his spine, Stiles’ wet mouth finding his temple.

Stiles makes a breathless, appreciative noise in the back of his throat as Derek starts rutting against him, and Derek rests most of his weight against Stiles’ torso, hips working entirely on their own accord, spurred on by the fact that Stiles is pressing his thighs even tighter together. Derek gets both arms around the body underneath him, and then he can’t even think.

The fire is consuming him, he’s burning, he’s burnt up, he’s not even there, the whole world is finally, _finally_ , collapsing in on itself, right before it explodes and then everything is blind, silent bliss.

 

Derek tries to find his breath as he rolls off and onto the side, curling himself around Stiles, nose pressed into the back of his neck. The bed isn’t made for two, but if they lie close enough, they’ll manage. Derek has no intention of moving any time soon. He’d probably break his neck going down the ladder.

Stiles shivers as the sweat goes cold on his skin. Derek gets the covers up, with a little effort, and drapes it over them both, but mostly Stiles. Derek likes the apartment a little cool, but he’d turned up the heat a bit the morning before because his guest looked like he was freezing. _Huh_ , Derek thinks, and blinks into the dim space over Stiles’ shoulder. They lie still for a few minutes, Stiles’ breathing finally slowing, Derek’s matching up until they’re breathing in perfect sync again; like they’d played in perfect harmony at the subway. That’s rarely happened to Derek. Laura was always his only proper musical partner.

“You could stay,” Derek suddenly blurts. He halts for a moment, not used to talking before he’s had the time to think. He slowly wraps his arm tighter around Stiles’ waist. There’s no response.

“You could stay here, and we could work together, I think that’d be good.”

Stiles hums. Derek takes that as a good sign. He traces Stiles’ hairline with his nose for a few inches before pressing it behind Stiles’ ear and kissing what skin he can reach, like an _okay_ , a _sleep tight_ , and maybe even a _good_. Good.

“Think about it.”

Stiles hums again, and Derek feels fingers ghosting over the back of the hand he’s keeping on Stiles’ stomach. It hovers for a while before finally settling, fingers lacing just barely into Derek’s. He falls asleep with Stiles’ hair pricking his forehead.

 

When he wakes up, it’s still mostly dark. He’s alone.

There’s no rucksack by the bed, no keyboard on the couch, no boots by the door, and no Stiles.

 

\---

 

Derek puts the piano up for sale.

Who’s he kidding anyway; it’s just taking up space, collecting a too generous amount of dust, and Laura rarely visits to play it anyway. Uncle Peter and his god damn pretentious, flashy gifts. (“It’s a _loft_ , Derek, you simply _have_ to have a piano in a loft.”)

But four days pass, and every time someone posts a new bid on it, Derek keeps pushing the price higher. It’s a good piano and all. In the end, he cancels the online auction; he’ll ask his parents if they know someone who can care for it properly, maybe even arrange for a pick-up themselves. He can’t be bothered with this.

True to his nature, Derek has his share of awkward alone-moments in the apartment, ones where he tries not to, well, “look it in the eye”, crab-walking around the edges of the living room with his back to the big wooden lump in the heart of the space. Which is hard, because duh, most of the apartment _is_ the living room. It takes an enormous effort not to roll it into the far corner to at least get it somewhat out of the way, but that just seems ridiculous.

His cello is back in the case, stowed away in the bedroom, and the door is closed most of the time, like a security. Derek isn’t even sure why he still sleeps upstairs; maybe it’s defiance, a sense of rebellion mixed with a need to justify his control. Because he’s fine. Thing are just the way they were before December, and Derek is _fine._

He finds a pair of fingerless, black gloves squished between the sofa cushions and breaks two plates standing innocently on the coffee table. Deciding that while he can’t stop thinking about blue fingers and that the snow finally began three days ago, he can, however, go outside and try to run it off instead of sulking in the chair that doesn’t smell new anymore.

He does that.

 

\---

 

“Well, you certainly look like shit.”

“Good morning to you too,” Derek grunts as he takes Laura’s previous spot by the steering wheel and she buckles herself in comfortably in the passenger’s seat next to him. She always drives up for Christmas on the 22nd from Philadelphia in her own car, and snoozes in the passenger’s seat on the way to Boston while Derek drives that stretch.

While most of the Hale family originates from California, they somehow slowly seemed to migrate east when Derek’s uncle Peter, Laura and Derek himself started finding business over there around the same time. It’s an old joke that it’s more or less impossible to keep the Hales apart, and Derek isn’t one to disagree. They still have a myriad of cousins and aunts and uncles living around most of the country, but when their parents announced that they had bought a house in Boston, Laura had almost cried. They’re close, okay?

It doesn’t seem like Laura is ready to snooze just the slightest today. Which is just Derek’s luck. He’s left alone the first thirty minutes, Laura taking a call that lasts around twenty and updating a calendar app on her tablet for a while afterwards.

“So how is hermit life treating you? Have you been playing?” Laura inquires as they pull out of the busiest part of the city and head north.

“I’ve been playing,” Derek replies curtly, eyes on the road. The cello is in the back, isn’t that enough? Laura tuts.

“You’re incredibly talkative. Really. It’s shocking.” The three years age difference never seemed to register well with Laura.

Derek turns on the radio and ignores her. He dislikes the idea of four uncomfortable hours with someone in a car as much as the next person, but he’s not in the mood to talk. He can see Laura eyeing him at his side, and he grips the steering wheel just that tad harder, tightens his jaw and hopes she gets the hint. She rolls her eyes but goes back to her tablet. Derek feels immediately relieved.

They’ve been driving for a solid hour, radio playing, Laura alternating between dozing off, looking through things on her tablet and humming along to songs she knows. The radio presenter introduces the next song as [Last Time ](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hSsIUh9g4A)by Paper Route. [  
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3hSsIUh9g4A)

“So,” Laura goes, and Derek can’t stop the annoyed groan before it’s out. Laura scowls at him.

“How are you? It’s not like any of us hear from you much.” Derek shrugs uncomfortably and shifts his hands on the steering wheel.

“There’s really not much to tell.” Laura groans and rolls her eyes.

“Honestly, Derek? I don’t see you for what, five months, and you “don’t have much to tell”? That’s bull.” She settles in to sulk in her seat, and Derek has a feeling that well, he might as well start talking. She’ll wiggle it out of him either way. So Derek sighs, changes lanes and mutters,

“I had some offers from that old buddy of yours, Lucas something. The one with the insane neckties.” Laura perks up in her seat.

“Oh yeah?” she asks with deliberate nonchalance. Derek nods.

“And?” prompts Laura and prods his arm. Derek shrugs her away.

“I said no. Three times. You’d think a man his age would know common courtesy,” he grumbles. Laura is quiet for a moment.

“But you were playing.”

“I was playing.”

“You’re speaking in past tense.”

“Laura, can we please just fucking drop this?” Derek groans.

“Hey, mind your damn language with me,” Laura snaps. Derek scowls at the road and mutters a _sorry_. So, maybe she _does_ act like an actually older sister sometimes. Which always works. It always makes Derek feel like he’s 14 again and testing limits with his mom who, for the record, never took bullshit from any of her kids.

“Something’s up, Der.” Laura’s tone softens and Derek stiffens up to match.  

“Come on,” she pushes, and Derek can feel something hard brewing in the pit of his chest.

“You haven’t been like this since last Christmas with—“

“Laura, please just _stop_ , there’s no o—nothing to talk about, alright?” Derek sneers, effectively cutting her off. She frowns at him, and Derek can tell that it’s mostly concern, but he sees the emotional cliff ahead of him and he flat out refuses to go over it. Derek turns up the radio. Laura studies him for a while, quietly, and Derek can feel her eyes on his neck like a persistent mosquito.

“I heard she’s been roaming Chicago,” says Laura, picking at one of her nails.

“I don’t care.” Derek’s reply is almost soft. It makes him feel dizzy. He turns up the volume a bit more and stares so intently on the road ahead his eyes go dry.

 

It’s three in the afternoon when they pull into the driveway just to see someone else going into the large house further up. There are already a few cars parked next to his dad’s Hummer. Derek is barely out the car before a pair of arms wraps around his middle, and someone else pounces and falls him around the neck.

“Derek! Derek!” screech his winter-clad cousins as Derek wobbles towards the house with child tumors dragging after him, Laura howling with laughter behind him as she gets their bags out the back and hikes up Derek’s cello on one shoulder.

“Hello, sweetheart,” says his mom as he meets her in the doorway and bends down so she can kiss his cheek. She holds his face in her hands just a little longer than usual.

“How was the drive?” she asks as Laura catches up and shoves Derek’s things into his arms.

“It was fine,” Laura says, pecks their mother’s cheek and breezes into the house with the twin 10-year-olds on her tail.

Derek hikes up his duffel bag and cello case and joins the rest of the family in the foyer; his dad is greeting aunt Sarah and her husband, still in their boots, while the boys are fighting over who gets to carry a smug-looking Laura’s bag upstairs. Derek’s dad drags him into a tight hug.

“Your uncle Peter is in the living room. Don’t, under any circumstances, let him start talking about his new car, he’ll never stop,” he laughs under his breath.

Christmas in the Hale household is always chaos, cookies, an unusual amount of old decorations passed down through generations, and nearly twenty people, sometimes more. Derek picks up the tabby cat his oldest cousin brought when she moved in, and settles into an arm chair in the sitting room with the purring animal in his lap, surrounded by family still spilling in the door.  

 

\---

 

They postpone going home until early on the 31st. Laura has a date for New Years Eve, and while Derek enjoys spending a week with the whole Hale clan, he’s tired and wants to go home.

Laura sleeps all the way down to New York and Derek keeps the radio volume low.

Maybe that’s just how Christmas is going to be for him; people leaving. Derek glances guiltily at his snoozing sister. She’d been unfairly nice to him all week. Most of the family had, in fact. Derek isn’t made of glass though. He’s fine.

And to be fair, maybe comparing Stiles to Kate isn’t appropriate. Stiles didn’t promise him anything, not like she had done; everything.

And what, he’s supposed to hope for something permanent because they make something incredible in a few days?

Derek glances at Laura again and carefully reaches out to push her scarf up to cover a bared spot on her neck.

Kate had been Laura’s friend first. Her violin had harmonized with Derek’s cello when they played, though; not in the way Derek plays with Laura, but in an aggressive, beautifully harsh way that left no room for argument, something that had Derek pressing her into the huge mattress in his bedroom most nights, and holding her down because she had kept daring him to go harder on her. It was always too hard, too much. Derek had been totally gone on her.

Laura starts stirring awake and Derek shakes his head vehemently. No. Not now.

 

They grab a coffee, Laura hugs him goodbye and reminds him to call her, and Derek decides to walk the last fifteen minutes home with his luggage, taking a break to enjoy his warm, over-sweetened drink on a bench and appreciate just being by himself. Eight days with five children and his grandparents’ two hyperactive malamutes in the house does that. He’s looking forward to going home and just crawling under the covers with a book, get his head in order. Blowing at the coffee, Derek looks up at the buildings around him.

His proposal wasn’t even meant to be a big thing; just something intimate and calm and nice. It was turned down by Kate and her “oh sweetie, you’re thinking way too much of this. We were having fun, weren’t we? We’re good together, yeah?” and it all got fucked with Derek staring after the taxi that picked her up just after Christmas dinner at the Hale home, hypnotized, in his socks and with the ring still in his pocket. Laura had guided him back inside and sat him down. It really would have been easier with less of an audience. Derek realises grimly that before this week, most of the family hasn’t seen him since that happened. Great most-recent-memory for them to have had of him.

And at first he had just been hurt; then confused, then tired. Nothing really helped much. He’d tried angry, but that felt unfair; it hadn’t been her fault if she wasn’t in the same place as him.

It only felt unfair until Kate was suddenly attending gatherings with the fancy crowd of large names in the music industry that Derek and Laura had introduced her to. Derek had suspected it – or, well, Laura had, actually, and Derek had gotten mad at her, mostly because it, for some reason, seemed like something Kate _could_ do. And if he thought that being proven right about the suspicions would at least magically heal the hurt, he had been sorely disappointed.

As it turns out, it had made things much worse. Derek had seen her clinging to the arm of a fiftysomething pianist from Melbourne and gone straight home to put his cello away and cancel all appointments the next week. And the week after that, he cancelled everything for the next two months.

Derek sets the empty coffee cup next to him and rubs his palms over his face with a groan. He needs to stop. Kate is history. She’s water under the bridge, and he’s a grown-ass man. It’s over. He’s going to be fine. When he gets up, it’s like he leaves something heavy behind on the bench.

 

It’s still cold as hell, and Derek tucks his hands deep into his jacket pockets as he starts the last stretch towards home. Somehow, he feels pretty good. Not happier as such, and it may just be the aftermath of the rush of recent Christmas activity around him after such a long time spent mostly by himself, but as he stomps snow off his boots outside his building, he feels that he may just be a little more resigned to going back to that; being alone.

What Derek doesn’t expect to find, as he steps into the hallway, is Stiles curled stiffly against the door to his elevator, wrapped in just his jacket and so blue Derek’s heart stops dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit just got nsfw.
> 
> Songs used in this chapter:  
> Piano: [Naval](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pah9ZLNLfdI)  
> Paper Route – Last Time


	4. Chapter 4

 

 [](http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilhayden/8298896529/)

art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com/)

 

Stiles’ fingers are still numb by the time Derek stops methodically rubbing sensation back into his calves. The running water that fills up the tub in the corner of the bathroom has been the only noise for a while, and Stiles rests his head against the tile of the wall behind him, curling the toes of his right foot slightly in Derek’s lap. Derek sits cross-legged in front of him, bend over Stiles’ leg, not looking up, but content on focusing on nothing but the job at hand, and Stiles’ eyes keep straying to Derek’s weather-ruffled hair and the scarf still hanging loosely around his neck. His hands are warm, and not at all as calloused as Stiles would have thought they would have been from playing the cello. 

You’ve been thinking too much about his hands, man, stop it, Stiles has to remind himself.

The wiggling toes are what makes Derek stop, pause, and then get up, setting Stiles’ foot back on the floor, fingers lingering for a heartbeat against the dip in his ankle. Stiles slowly stands as Derek turns off the water, grabs a towel off a hanger by the door, and turns back to him. He hands Stiles the towel without a word, touches his elbow briefly, and then leaves the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

Stiles sighs. Might as well, he thinks, and starts pulling off clothes, even though he still feels stiff as an icicle.

He’d never gotten around to picking his things up from Scott’s work the night before. He’d thought that maybe he could catch Derek on his way in, but Derek never showed. Stiles had pulled off leaving the apartment building longer than he had the past few times, the previous week, when he’d also waited. When he finally made a move to get up, cold beginning to take hold, he had glanced at his watch and it was too late to get his things. No extra clothes, no sleeping bag, nada. Stiles had cursed himself as far off as he could, and then he had taken his keyboard out of the bag, propped it up gently off to the side, and sat down on the folded sack of fabric to wait for the night to pass.

Stiles folds his clothes on the closed toilet seat, tries not to shiver, and gingerly steps into the water, hissing when his cold feet breach the surface. He eases himself down very slowly, pushing back the burn, and finally settles against the side of the tub with a groan.

He’d lost his stupid hat after Christmas Eve, which was what finally drove him back to Derek’s building, caught somewhere between frustration and epiphany at what a complete dick he’d been. He’d been standing outside for a full ten minutes before finally finding the courage to step inside and ring the doorbell. There’d been no answer. He’d waited for an hour and then given up and gone back to the subway station. The next day, he repeated the attempt when it had gotten too cold to play at the station any longer, and there still hadn’t been anyone home.

Starting to scrub his arms under the water, Stiles sniffles as his nose unclogs. He’d been an idiot, a big freaking idiot for saying no to such an offer, especially since he can always say stop later. Just make sure to read the fine print, you know? It’s not like Derek would have locked him in a tower if he’d said yes on the spot, wrapped up in 200 pounds worth of warm arms and rough stubble against the back of his neck.

Stiles shudders the memory off. Ill timing, man, ill timing.

 

He sits in the tub until the water is cold, and then towels himself off and redresses in just over-shirt, socks and pants, because in all honesty the rest of his clothes are in a questionable state. Exhaustion is seeping into his bones from the outside in, and Stiles yawns at his own reflection and practices his I’ll-leave-you-alone-as-soon-as-I-have-grabbed-my-things smile. At least he’s clean; even his nails are tidy. He mops up the water from the floor with the towel and hangs it on a heated drying rack. It’s a damn big bathroom, he’ll give Derek that. He checks himself over for signs of frostbite, thankfully finds nothing, and spends another few minutes prodding at overworked muscles and strained limbs; he doesn’t want to go back out. He wants to stay in Derek’s warm bathroom and not face what’s probably going to be the most awkward confrontation of his entire life. Stiles frowns at his own reflection and bonks his forehead against the mirror.

“You’ll god damn have to, Stilinski,” he says to himself.

Stepping out with the rest of his clothes bunched against his chest, Stiles immediately smells food. His eyes scan the apartment quickly; Derek is in the kitchen, turning the stove off and taking two deep plates to the couch, and as if on cue, Stiles’ stomach growls noisily when Derek passes him. He hears Derek chuckle and abruptly cut himself off, setting down the plates and then looking at them like he’s not sure what to do next. So Stiles, naturally, because he’s a lemming, follows him.

“It’s just a microwave curry-thing or whatever, I don’t really have anything in the house right now,” Derek mutters as he goes back to the kitchen, and Stiles sits down on the couch and takes one of the plates. A microwave curry-thing or whatever is more than enough to make his stomach growl again. Derek returns with two mugs of coffee and sits down on the couch next to him, just as Stiles takes his first bite, because who denies an angry stomach the food so generously served in front of it? Not Stiles, that’s for sure. He can feel Derek glancing at him but has a feeling it’ll be impolite to make him know that he noticed, so Stiles just eats. Derek isn’t close enough that they’re touching, and Stiles is mostly warmed through, but he can still feel the other man’s body heat close by. It’s almost nice. If you, you know, choose to ignore the elephant in the room, size extra large. Which they both seem to be doing.

He finishes his food and is about to reach for one of the mugs when Derek beats him to it, reaches over, and hands it to Stiles. He’s not making eye contact at all. In all honesty, it makes Stiles panic a little. Just a little. But what had he been expecting, Jesus, what’s he even doing here? Derek is a good guy and Stiles is a squatter and—Stiles has to forcibly calm his own thoughts. Just calm down. Breathe, dude. He’ll let you finish the coffee, get properly dressed, and then you’ll just leave. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Nothing more to it. You’ll get your shit, not run out of the building like a crazy person even though you want to, and you won’t panic until you’re out of sight.

Derek turns on the TV and finds a rerun of a CSI Miami episode Stiles remembered seeing years ago. The volume is low and it’s almost a bit domestic, and Stiles adds that to his list of things not to think about when in a room with a man you quite like, but whom you have no chance with, mostly because you bailed on him after he offered you the world on a platter. You’re going to leave soon, and you’re going to do it with dignity.

Then he glances, involuntarily, up at the bed loft.

His keyboard bag is peeking out under the railing, and he can faintly make out his rucksack next to it.

Stiles blinks. And blinks again. Derek throws a blanket over his feet then, and settles back, pulling his own legs onto the couch until his toes are brushing Stiles’ ankles. Stiles tears his eyes away from the bags to look at Derek. He’s looking back at him. There’s something forcedly stern in the set of his jaw, like a security mechanism, and something that speaks volumes of insecurity badly hidden underneath. For a moment, that look makes it hard to breathe. 

So Stiles smiles. And slowly, Derek returns the smile before looking back to the television screen.

The blanket is warm and Stiles pulls it up just a bit on his legs and slides further down on the couch. His tailbone is still sore from when he tripped on the snow on 116th near Jefferson Park a few days earlier, and landed on his ass while trying to protect his keyboard. He adjusts himself until he’s almost lying down, torso draped over the arm of the couch and head on his arms. It’s comfortable as hell, and the blanket smells like Derek; a new smell, a nice smell.

Stiles dozes off in the middle of one of Horatio Caine’s punch lines.

 

When he wakes up, it’s gotten dark, and Stiles feels completely, entirely boneless. The blanket is pulled up to his shoulders, the television is off, and Derek is reading beside him, but he’s obviously been moving around, because his clothes have changed, the table is cleared of their plates, and he’s wearing glasses. It makes him look a bit like a dork, and Stiles finds he quite likes it.

“What time is it?” he croaks, voice rough with sleep. Derek glances at his watch.

“11:40.”

“At night?” Stiles asks. Derek puts the book down, looks at him, and nods.

“Damn,” Stiles just says, and sits up. He doesn’t notice that he’s had his feet against the side of Derek’s thigh until he’s pushing away off of it.

“Yeah,” Derek says, apparently unbothered by Stiles toes digging into his thigh muscles.

“You looked like you needed it.”

There’s something a little soft about the way he says it that makes Stiles want to fumble with his hands like a 12-year-old crushing on his math-teacher. He doesn’t, mostly because his hands are still squeezing the blanket.

“So. You’re not going to a New Year’s party then?” he asks. Derek’s face scrunches up a bit and he shakes his head like the mere idea sounds tiring. Sweet baby Jesus, he’s got such a lovely face.

“I don’t party that much,” he replies. Stiles feels exposed under Derek’s casual gaze. He should be getting out; he’s imposing. But Derek doesn’t look like he thinks so. Stiles bites the inside of his lower lip, out of habit, and then rushes out;

“Do you want to go outside and look at fireworks? It’s almost midnight and all.”

Taking the plunge.

Stiles knows what the invitation suggests. It suggests something that isn’t Stiles leaving as soon as he can, grabbing his things (from upstairs, _why_ are they upstairs?) and getting the fuck out of Derek’s life as he ought to. It suggests doing something together that doesn’t involve Derek just being a good human being and saving someone from dying of hypothermia. It suggests a try that might turn into an offer that might turn into a promise. Stiles doesn’t know if Derek wants that; fuck, he doesn’t even know if _he_ wants that.

“It’s cold as hell,” Derek just says, but he’s already getting up. Stiles stumbles over his own thoughts and then almost himself, as the blanket catches on his foot as he stands.

“But fireworks!” Derek rolls his eyes at him as he heads for the coat rack, and it’s not unkindly. Stiles feels something warm curl in the chest.

“You just got warm, do you really want to go back outside and freeze to death?” Derek asks, even as he’s handing Stiles his boots. Stiles nods. The words are coming easier now, even though his hands are shaking just barely.

“Hell yeah I do, and you will just have to make sure I don’t let myself freeze. To death.” Stiles chews his words for a moment while he ties his shoelaces and Derek slips on a jacket.

“That’s a bit over-dramatic, even for you.” Derek huffs on a laugh and throws the curled-up blanket at Stiles’ face as he heads towards the front door.

“’Even for me’, what does that even mean?” He starts up the stairs by the elevator leading to the roof, Stiles following, blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

“It means just what I said, mister Misérables!” he calls after him as he quickly closes the front door after securing that it doesn’t lock automatically, in case Derek didn’t bring keys.

 

The roof must be a few miles wide, give or take a bit. Maybe not miles, but it’s big, Stiles thinks in awe. It must be completely amazing to have during summer. Sure, it’s in the city, but it could be much worse surrounding buildings concerned.

Stiles quietly closes the door behind him and joins Derek standing quietly a little further out with his hands in his pockets. It’s a nice, clear night, actually, nice in a way Stiles usually considers a bit bad because the lack of clouds makes for an absolutely freezing time sleeping outside. He cringes internally at the thought. As a kid he’d never, in his wildest dreams, imagined growing up and suddenly living on the streets in a big city. He’d never thought “how cold” would be a scale on which he measured if he could sleep on a stoop or if he’d have to find something more sheltered. Funny what life brings you.

They stand there for a while before Derek inches closer and presses his shoulder lightly against Stiles’, like a test; a little push to see if Stiles is going to push back. Stiles does, gives him the hint of a shove, supposed to be playful, to maybe show Derek that he’s far less nervous than he actually is.

Stiles doesn’t actually have enough knowledge on the subject to say that he is, quote, scared of commitment. He does know that as of lately, he’s been afraid to get tied down, because nothing about his life has been tied down for quite some time, and while that’s frightening too, it’s what he expects. Being involved with someone, like back with Danny, the nice guy from the library on the Upper East Side, would mean having something to compare to.

Stiles can’t even imagine a hypothetical scenario where he can live with eighty percent of his life in total disarray, no job, no home, no money, and something completely normal, like a boyfriend, for the last twenty percent, without losing his mind. It’s too normal. He simply can’t see it.

And the way Derek looked at him had taken his breath away; the intensity of it had scared him shitless.

He’d made mistakes when he played for Derek on his last night, little slipups and hitting the wrong keys because he could feel Derek’s eyes on him. Derek probably hadn’t noticed, Stiles hopes he hadn’t noticed. Stiles never makes mistakes. He plays as easily as he breathes, but Derek’s presence made him fumble. He drew Stiles’ concentration away from the music and onto the prickling in the pit of his stomach, the thrill of Derek’s stare intensifying, and it had been amazing.

Derek offered him this, what? This whole, god damn full-package deal, a way out and up, a chance to get the eighty percent along too, which sounded good and all – but Stiles _never_ gets the long end of the stick, he just doesn’t. But he’s good, he’s a survivor, and he gets by. He loves his music, loves the friends he has, loves it when someone smiles at him, when he’s given half a donut while playing, when the sun is out, when Scott talks about Allison, and when the straps on his backpack don’t gnaw.

But here comes this rich dude, someone Stiles – despite the expensive cello – thought was a bit like him; playing at subway stations, and while he was being a bit of a noob about it with placement and all, it was nice. It was nice for a moment because it made Stiles feel not-alone, and then it turns out he’s still just as much of a homeless idiot from a small-town as he ever was after all. Alone.

The pressure seemed unbearable when he was in Derek’s arms in Derek’s bed in Derek’s apartment, exhausted and sated to the point of crying because it had been so _good_ , and this man, this insanely lovely, lonely man, offered him a chance, but it had been too much, and no one ever offers him this much without asking for too much in return.

Stiles can’t give that, because he is only one man, and he doesn’t really have much to begin with.

Derek’s arm settles lightly around Stiles’ middle under the blanket.

And even if Stiles is a survivor, because he is, there have been enough singed hairs and close calls for him to be wary, enough reasons to stay on his feet because well, the world can be an ugly place. Also, Stiles has seen Pretty Woman (dad had a problem with Julia Roberts, he really did).

But Derek seems content. He seems content with his hand on Stiles’ hip, seemed content with Stiles in his arms in a too-small bed surrounded by too-many books the week before. He’s fine with microwave meals and playing at subway stations and having Stiles’ cold feet on his thigh.

Despite the big apartment and the bigger names in his family, maybe he’s just, well. A guy.

“Why did you leave?”

Stiles feels his heart drop, perfectly free-fall, and come back up in a sickening rush, getting stuck in his throat. He gulps, tries not to do it too loudly. Derek is quiet, his hand still on Stiles’ hip. 

“I got scared,” he answers honestly, hesitantly.

“Things like that are usually a bit too good to be real, you know? It’s a bit overwhelming getting offers like that from someone you’ve known for long, let alone from, well. You.” Derek is still silent, but he’s nodding just slightly, indicating that he’s listening. Stiles licks his lips.

“I don’t know, it’s like something that big shouldn’t just come out of nowhere. Like I’m used to knowing that if you’re going to get something, you need to seriously work for it, and if something suspiciously convenient just drops out of the sky, it’s bound to fuck up sooner rather than later. Sheriff’s son. You learn to look for the snare in everything,” he mutters.

Derek is still quiet, still slowly nodding, and then he just hums once, tonelessly. The sucking feeling in Stiles’ gut won’t go away. He still hasn’t apologised for leaving, he’s barely even sure he’s explaining _why_ properly, because he isn’t confident he could explain it to himself and have it make sense.

But Derek hasn’t let go of him. He hasn’t pushed him away.

Slowly, Stiles puts his head down on Derek’s shoulder and looks out at the city. There are already fireworks crackling.

Maybe the sucking feeling Stiles has, one that intensifies and suddenly turns different when Derek’s hand shifts slightly on him, is an extension of the feeling he got when Derek played. Because he recognizes the heartbreak, the sense of longing. And he’s not sure how to decide whether this is good or bad, because really, who knows. Who knows.

For just a second, Stiles swears his heart stops beating, when Derek’s cheek touches the top of his head and stays there.

His whole body is suddenly thrumming with the thought that this man wants him, he wants him around, he’s got his arm around Stiles and he’s not letting go. And Stiles isn’t running away. The sucking feeling in his stomach feels like it’s pulling him up instead of sinking him now. He tries to back-trace the shift, but it blurs between Derek adjusting his hold and Stiles leaning into it.

It’s getting close to midnight and Stiles can’t stop himself before the words are already out.

“Do, uh, do you want to go back down?”

Maybe he can listen for a decision. Stiles isn’t sure if Derek heard it at the subway, heard it when they had sex in the guest bed and Stiles felt warm to the core from it for days; heard the harmony. They had fucking _fit_. Shapes falling into place, body parts, notes, statements, honesties. Stiles heard it. He heard it, and he hasn’t been able to let it go. So maybe if they play again, then maybe, maybe—

“Sure.”

 

Stiles walks straight to the piano and settles in on the bench, fighting the urge to verbally greet it as an old friend. Fucking beautiful instrument. Derek closes the door and approaches him, face softer than it had been earlier.

“I know Christmas is over and all, but do you know [O Come, O Come, Emmanuel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iO7ySn-Swwc)?” Stiles asks, ghosting a hand over the lid covering the keys. Derek nods. [  
](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iO7ySn-Swwc)

“We never got to play together here,” Stiles continues, and opens the lid. Derek, apparently, takes him up on it; there’s a guarded smile on his lips when he collects the cello from the master bedroom. He sits down on the stool on Stiles’ left, facing the other way, and props his instrument up between his knees to get it ready. Stiles pushes the blanket off, lets it pool around his feet, and sets his fingers to the keys.

Derek looks at him just one more time over the neck of the cello, before he starts playing.

Stiles wonders if you can miss something after only hearing it once. He realizes he has really missed Derek’s playing. The stool is probably just a bit too low for Derek, but there’s something weirdly intimate about sharing it as the melody progresses, and Derek drags his bow over the strings with a finesse that makes Stiles shiver forcefully.

And at one point, he makes a mistake. Just a small one, like the last time he’d sat at the grand piano in the big loft, this time because he glances at Derek instead of focusing, and his finger slips just a fraction. And right there, _right there,_ Stiles knows he’s done for.

He’s fallen for Derek Hale.

 

When they finish, Stiles wants to drag the remaining few seconds out until their very last. It’s Derek who actually does it, because it fits, because he can. The note lingers in the air, thick in Stiles’ throat, something he can’t swallow and doesn’t want to anyway. Derek stands briefly to set his cello on the couch, and then returns to sit on the stool again, facing the piano with Stiles. Their knees bump, and Derek runs his fingers absentmindedly over the keys without pressing down.

“I think that went well.”

“It did,” Stiles replies.

“Almost something I would have chosen.” Derek’s attempt not to sound like he’s amused isn’t successful. Stiles snorts.

“Well, you _are_ ancient.” Derek lifts an eyebrow and looks at him.

“I play classics. It pays well.” Stiles only needs about two seconds to detect the thick sarcasm and the reference. He glares at Derek.

“You smug bastard, you could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and people would line up to fawn over you. And of course it pays well if you play at like, Carnegie Hall or something,” he mutters. Derek looks thoughtful for a moment.

“I actually did play at Carnegie Hall with Laura.”

“That was an exaggeration to spice up my joke!” Stiles starts, and then cuts himself off when Derek starts looking _actually_ smug.

“No, you know what, I’m not even going to make jokes anymore, they’re wasted on you!” Stiles says and throws his hands in the air.

He’s in the middle of trying to form a scowl out of the smile he can’t keep down, when Derek leans over and kisses him. It’s a very brief contact, but Stiles chases it when Derek pulls away, hands immediately finding the back of Derek’s neck. Stiles opens his mouth around Derek’s tongue, and Derek sighs what Stiles thinks is a ‘ _yes_ ’into his mouth. Stiles’ elbow mashes down on the piano keys noisily in a fit of hushed laughter when Derek kisses him harder and pulls him closer, arms around his back and teeth around his lower lip. Stiles moans and squeezes his eyes shut, curls his fingers into the short hair in the back of Derek’s neck.

They manage to stand without falling, and fumble their way to Derek’s bedroom, which Stiles hasn’t actually seen before; it’s clean and spacious, but it’s the least personal room in the whole apartment. Stiles ponders on Derek’s weirdly stylish choice of pillows, right before he pushes Derek down on them and crawls over him to kiss him again. Jesus, he could do this all fucking day. Derek pulls him down and rises up off the sheets to meet him at the same time, hands under Stiles’ shirt; on his back, around to smooth up his stomach, his chest. Stiles’ breath hitches when Derek hooks his thumbs into Stiles’ belt loops and yanks him down until their crotches are flush together.

“Are you gonna stay this time?” Derek whispers into Stiles’ mouth, and for a moment, it makes him freeze. Despite the teasing undertone, there’s a hint of a serious inquiry in there. Stiles cups Derek’s face in his hands, presses their foreheads together, and breathes him in.

“If you’ll let me,” he replies, and Derek just kisses him again, hard and concluding.

_Yes._

Stiles rolls his hips for the friction, making Derek groan and swiftly reach for zippers and buttons, Stiles lifting his hips off of him when Derek motions for him to help get their pants off. Stiles is embarrassed for a second about his lack of underwear, but when Derek registers it a moment later, he swears and moans at the same time, so maybe it’s not so bad after all.

Stiles has trouble judging if what they do is careful or brutal, mostly because his mind blanks out completely with pleasure from time to time, like someone unconsciously leaning and shifting against a light switch. It lies somewhere in the middle, maybe, Derek cradling him and pulling at him at the same time, the impulse he seems to have to stay gentle overcome with the want to take, to keen, to pull and press Stiles down into him and bite at his mouth. Sometimes Derek rolls them over on their sides and keeps pressing little kisses to his lips until Stiles is dizzy, and then Derek presses him down and yanks his hips up, and Stiles is immediately in focus again, sharp concentration and blistering need, moaning as Derek trails his tongue over his stomach.

There’s a mouth on his cock at some point, making his eyes roll back in his head, heat and suction and a great amount of swearing on his part, followed by Derek’s lips on the inside of his thigh, hands tangling in Derek’s hair, pulling him up, up, until they’re face to face. Derek’s eyes are caught between wild and blissful, and Stiles needs to kiss him again, needs to have him closer, presses his fingers into Derek’s back and sucks a bruise into his shoulder.

Derek straddles him and Stiles has trouble making coherent words. Instead, he reaches out and starts jerking Derek off while he watches every ripple of muscle, every movement, when Derek’s lungs expand quickly, when he leans down, licking at Stiles’ open mouth, an animalistic growl riding the undercurrent in his voice, and Stiles is rutting up against his ass when Derek groans—

”Do it.” Stiles slows, just for a moment, feeling his face pulling into a questioning frown.

“Fuck me, please, Stiles.”

 

Stiles does.

A strained curse followed by Stiles’ name puffs out of Derek when he finally sinks down on him, his palm pressing over Stiles’ lower stomach keeping his hips from snapping up. Stiles keeps his hands, still slick and slippery with lube, on Derek’s stomach, sitting up on his elbows to kiss his way across Derek’s chest, lifting his arm to bite into the crook of his elbow. Derek groans, presses him down again, and places his hands on either side of Stiles’ head as he pushes himself down completely, air leaving him in a rushed breath.

“Oh my _god,_ yes,” Stiles croaks, grabbling at Derek’s thighs, and Derek counters with a moan and lifts his hips before sinking back down, slowly. Stiles’ hands slip again and Derek sets the rhythm himself, cock getting caught between their stomachs when Stiles pushes up on his hands again to kiss him, licking into Derek’s mouth and swallowing the sounds he makes when Stiles gets a hand between them. Heat is coiling in his stomach every time Derek sits down in his lap, breath puffing through his nose against Stiles’ ear, his cheek, his throat when Derek’s back curves as he leans down to nibble on Stiles’ collarbone. It’s actual, fucking bliss. Stiles groans, pulls back, grips Derek’s hips, and starts thrusting up to meet him.

Stiles’ orgasm hits him out of nowhere when Derek has pushed him down and is bracing himself on his chest, legs quivering as he pushes himself up and falls back down. There’s a second where Derek comes back down and his face twists in pleasure, eyes shutting tightly, mouth falling open around something wordless, and Stiles loses it. He cries out, is immediately cut off by Derek’s mouth on his, and Derek rides him through it, thumbs resting lightly on his throat. There’s a note of something there, but Stiles can’t for the life of him even remember what two plus two makes, and he doesn’t know.

Derek’s breathing is shallow when Stiles pushes him off and presses up against his side, hand circling Derek’s cock and mouth attaching to the spot behind his ear that makes Derek shudder all over and choke on his own breath. It doesn’t take much; Derek exhales explosively when he comes, his eyes closing, head tilted to the side for Stiles’ mouth. Stiles strokes him through the aftershocks, the little twitches in his shoulders and the effort it takes his over-worked lungs to finally be able to keep up again.

The sheets have wrapped around Stiles’ feet, and he kicks them off as best as he can, settling down with his head on Derek’s shoulder and draping an arm over his stomach.

“Hey,” Derek mutters softly against his temple, and bends the arm under Stiles’ head floppily to brush over his buzz-cut. Stiles chuckles. Derek’s breath is warm against his forehead.

“Hey you,” he says, and kisses Derek’s throat, which is more or less what he can reach without moving too much. Motion is overrated; he’ll just stay right here, thanks very much. Derek closes his eyes and keeps stroking his hand through Stiles’ hair. It’s not very thorough, but it’s enough to make him relax. His chest is still rising and falling a bit quickly in front of Stiles’ face.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles murmurs after a while. The hand in his hair stops.

“It’s done. You’re here now.”

Stiles knows that he’ll get to apologize properly later from the way Derek’s fingers stroke down the back of his neck for a moment. They’ll have plenty of time.

“Do you want to play something else?” Derek asks. Stiles perks up with possibly a bit too much glee, so quickly he almost head butts Derek under the chin. Sitting up, he kisses the smirk off Derek’s face before getting out of bed and taking the duvet with him into the living room.

“If your bare ass touches that seat, Stiles!” Derek calls after him from the edge of the bed. The threat is implied. Stiles grins to himself as he sits down anyway, wiggling in his seat for good measure. He’ll take whatever Derek throws at him.

“Whatever Derek throws at him” turns out to be Derek himself, and Stiles ends up cackling like a maniac on the floor, tangled in the duvet, the legs of the stool, and Derek’s arms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing of American television and if they actually do reruns that way. We do where I live, but in all honesty we don’t have a lot to choose from of our own, so oh well.  
>  **On another, more important note!** We have had so much fun with this that we couldn’t bear just leaving it here. So there will be another chapter posted **Sunday the 30th** , right before New Year’s eve, an epilogue of sorts, just to wrap things up.  
> Thank you all so much for sticking with us so far, it’s been a pleasure.  
> Happy Christmas, people!
> 
> Music used for this chapter:  
> Piano & cello: [O Come, O Come, Emmanuel](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iO7ySn-Swwc)


	5. Epilogue

 

[ ](http://www.flickr.com/photos/cecilhayden/8326848491/)

art by [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com/)

 

”Stop fiddling with the tie, you look fine.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, but he does let go and holds his palms up in surrender. Derek adjusts his own bowtie and taps the toe of his left shoe against the bathroom tiles to fit it properly against the instep.

“Cut me some slack, okay? I haven’t worn a suit since prom, and God help me that’s been a few years ago by now.” Derek leans in and kisses the corner of Stiles’ mouth, and Stiles hums in approval, bumping his nose against Derek’s before turning to the bathroom mirror. That’s a shame, Derek thinks, because his boyfriend looks dapper as hell in a suit.

His _boyfriend_. Try that on for size. The word still sounds odd in his mouth, but not necessarily in a bad way that means he’ll never get used to it. Derek puts a hand on either side of Stiles’ hips and hooks his chin over his shoulder. Stiles looks at him through the mirror and adjusts the tie again. Derek grunts and swats his hand away.

“Stop. You look amazing, and if it were up to me, you’d be wearing that forever.” He gestures vaguely up and down Stiles’ form with a slight nod of his head, earning a goofy grin in return.

“You’re totally hot for me in a suit, aren’t you? It’s the tie, isn’t it?” Stiles coos and covers Derek’s hands with his own. Derek huffs out a laugh.

“It’s the everything, really,” he replies and pecks the side of Stiles’ neck before pulling back.

“I’ll get back to you on the percentage of which the tie is the reason when I pull it off you later,” he says and exits the bathroom. He can’t help but smile when he hears Stiles groan dramatically behind him. 

“Don’t say that right before we’re about to leave, Jesus, Derek! I can’t sport a boner at a concert hall!” he calls pitifully.

“Where you’re meeting my sister and her boyfriend,” Derek adds helpfully from the living room, and pockets his phone after checking the time.

“Where I’m meeting your sister and her boyfriend!” Stiles cries, finally emerging from the bathroom, hitting the light switch on his way out. Derek laughs, wary not to crinkle his own suit, when Stiles melts against his back by the kitchen counter.

“I want to make a good impression, okay?” Stiles mumbles into his shoulder, arms winding around Derek’s middle.

“You’ll do fine,” Derek assures him, squeezing the hand over his navel, and untangles himself.

“Get your coat.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me wear a _coat_. Old people wear _coats_. Plus, it’s March. I’m in three layers already, I’m going to have a heatstroke,” Stiles grumbles as he heads for the hangers by the door. Derek ignores him and bends down to fix one of his shoelaces. Stiles is nervous; there’s no denying it, even if he’s trying to hide it behind false, awfully executed bravado. Derek doesn’t mind much. He remembers the thrill of the first big performance, and honestly, he’s probably almost as nervous. He hasn’t played in front of an actual audience in over a year. If they’re really lucky, they’ll pass out in tandem the second they step onto the stage.

 

Truth be told, maybe Derek isn’t as terrified about the concert as he is about the reception. They never cease to make him uncomfortable, and the added bonus that a) it’s his first in a very long time, and b) Laura is going to meet the guy Derek has refused to let her see for almost three months, while he and Stiles figured things out and took their time settling in as an actual couple, is making him almost nauseous. He’d squeezed Stiles’ hand before they got out of the cab, reassuring the pale pianist with half a smile the best he could.

It does, however, help that Laura’s boyfriend could possibly be the reincarnation of Buddha himself. He shakes Derek’s hand when Derek and Stiles finally spot them by the staircase leading to the concert hall, where Laura is talking to an elderly gentleman in a smoking.

“Boyd,” says Derek, finding a weird sort of comfort in the firm handshake, and gestures to Stiles.

“This is Stiles.” Stiles looks mildly flustered, but Boyd shakes his hand and offers him a smile that could tame lions, and Derek watches Stiles visibly relax.

“Good to finally meet you. Laura has been complaining for months, she’s going to want your guts on a platter,” he says, directing the last part at Derek, who winces. As if timed to the sound of her name, the elderly man leaves, and Laura turns to the trio with equal amounts of glee and exasperation.

“Three months, little brother,” she hisses at Derek, before practically enveloping Stiles’ face in her hands. Derek suppresses a could-have-been violent belly laugh, and Stiles’ eyes go wide as saucers as Laura pulls him down to inspect him. Her face goes from scrutinizing to widely smiling in a matter of seconds.

“Oh, he is _adorable_ ,” Laura coos. Derek snorts.

“He’s about the same age as Boyd,” he remarks, and Boyd bows curtly, a stifled smirk on his face.

“Well, I like my young boys,” Laura retorts, and releases Stiles’ cheeks. Derek discreetly places his hand on Stiles’ lower back and feels him lean into it.

“Thank you very much for doing this,” Stiles says, not as much a tremor to it as Derek had expected.

“I’ve been looking very much forward to it. If you’re as good as Derek says you are, tonight will go over just fine. Mind you, it’s unusual that I don’t sample the goods myself before booking a concert hall to display them in, but oh well,” Laura says, leaning into Boyd’s massive form when he slips an arm around her waist. Her evening dress, a simple, startling blue one, makes her eyes glimmer dangerously, and Derek glares at her.

“Don’t freak him out,” he grits out, and Laura laughs. Stiles leans just a little more into Derek’s palm.

“Honestly, you’ll be fine. We need to go talk to the CEO of Boyd’s company, he did fund this after all, but I’ll see you two before you go on, okay?” Derek nods shortly, Stiles mimics it wordlessly, and Laura and Boyd saunter off. Stiles exhales heavily.

“I think my knees are giving out,” he whispers hoarsely, and Derek presses into his side.

“You’ll do great. Just relax. You’re nervous until you step on stage, and then it’s like playing by ourselves. Don’t think about the people, don’t think about what might go wrong, I’m right there with you and you just do what you always do, alright?” he says against the side of Stiles’ head. Stiles swallows thickly and nods. Derek glances around him to get a sense of how much privacy they have. Stepping a bit closer to Stiles, he takes both his hands and looks him dead in the eye. Stiles is a little pale, slightly red splotches on his cheeks. His hands are shaking just barely, and Derek squeezes them tightly in his.

“You will do so well,” he mutters tenderly, and feels Stiles’ pulse jump under his fingers.

“I’ll get us something to drink, stay here,” Derek says, getting a nod in return, and he squeezes Stiles’ hand one last time before heading towards the drinks table further in.

It takes longer than he had anticipated getting there; he keeps being stopped by attendants who recognize him, and he gets thumped on the back by three different men and hugged by two women, all whom he still has trouble naming even though he’s sure he’s seen them plenty of times. He manages to manoeuvre between two familiar-looking women in their fifties, friends of his parents, thanks them mid-step for their attendance, and promptly bumps into a friend of his uncle Peter’s just when he thinks he’s steered clear of people.

This is the part of the reception Derek dreads. He’s fairly good at mingling, actually, he’s never been rude or directly dismissive when approached, but he’s not exactly happy about it. He prefers looking on from the borders of the room, sneaking along walls the best he can manage, and not get gushed over. Needless to say, he rarely has the opportunity to go about it that way; the Hales are a busy bunch of people.

He’s just done congratulating the man on his recent nomination for something Derek doesn’t even knew existed, when he sees her.

Sparkling golden champagne and stunning dress, black and glittery, killer red lips over white teeth. Derek freezes instantly when their eyes meet across the room.

Kate smiles at him, slips her wrist a little firmer into the loop of the arm of an elderly cellist Derek recognizes from another reception a few years back, and tilts her champagne glass upwards in a small toast. Derek suddenly can’t breathe; he’s frozen in place, waiting for the emotional shutter to go down again, crack him over the toes and ball him up like a woodlouse, when someone touches his hand.

“Derek, come on, we need to get ready.”

There’s a moment where Derek feels like he was just pulled back from the edge of a cliff, snapped back to reality when Stiles’ face appears in front of him, eyebrows knitted. Derek swallows.

“Are you okay?” Stiles asks with a frown, drawing his hand up Derek’s lower arm. His fingers send little sparks up Derek’s arm, like a defibrillator kicking his heart into gear. Derek glances over Stiles’ shoulder at Kate, who is back to laughing at something her date is saying to another musician. She looks older than he remembered.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Stiles looks at him funnily, but Derek can feel himself smiling. He can breathe again when he takes Stiles’ hand and heads towards the stage door. He’s okay. He’s good.

 

He kisses Stiles seconds before they go on, Stiles’ eyes gleaming in the half light by the side of the stage, his whole body now visibly buzzing with an excitement that’s becoming familiar to Derek.

“Hey,” he breathes against Stiles’ lips, bumping their foreheads together and trying not to mess up Stiles’ hair, which has grown out a bit the past couple of months.

“Hey you,” Stiles replies, grinning broadly.

“Blow them away,” Derek says, and Stiles kisses him again, quickly, because that’s all they have time for.

Right now at least.

 

**The end**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that marks the end of Part Of My Melody!  
> It's been a brilliant December, and we've had a lot of fun working on this project. The comments and the feedback have been amazing, so thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you in 2013!
> 
> Message from [Girleverafter](http://girleverafter.tumblr.com): Hey guys! Thank you SO much for reading POMM, it is something we both hold very dear to our hearts, and the feedback has honestly been nothing short of amazing! I already miss our little verse, and I hope to one day return to it and tell more stories about our musicians!
> 
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> **Happy New Year everyone!**


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